


Nothing More and Nothing Less

by OurLittleSecretOkay



Series: Here [2]
Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 53
Words: 70,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurLittleSecretOkay/pseuds/OurLittleSecretOkay
Summary: The sequel to "Here"Do you ever have something you can't stop staring at because you hate it so much? That's essentially what happened to me, except I wrote 80,000 words about it, only to realize that I STILL WASN'T DONE. And so here we are, a few dozen chapters later, with a story still to tell. So enjoy the aftermath of my literary equivalent of hate-scrolling, Heathens.





	1. Chapter 1

The door opened into the dusty building, the creaking floors sighing accusatorily at her presence. She managed to get back out again without anyone addressing her. It didn't seem like the sort of place where people tended to ask questions, but she kept her head ducked down anyway. She scurried out, into the cold air biting with the onset of winter. She shivered, clutching the thin fabric of her dress closer to her. It was done. She was almost free. 

She unlocked the car quickly, furtively, afraid someone might see her. She didn't turn on the headlights as she drove away, opting to wait a few minutes before making herself noticeable. The knot in her stomach remained obstinately present, even as the town receded into the darkness behind her. She glanced at the papers on the seat beside her, a goldmine of useless information. It was as if someone had dropped the letters necessary to spell out the secrets of the universe into a bowl of alphabet soup--the answers were all there, but they were completely unobtainable. She stared straight ahead at the road, unfolding before her relentlessly. It was dark; here, outside the city, you could still see the stars in the night sky. She didn't look up, didn't have time to appreciate them. She already felt small enough, and hardly needed their help.  
She gently probed her conscious as one might test for a pulse. She didn't feel any different. Maybe she had been right, and this one act wasn't enough to perpetually condemn her to villainy. She had given the Quagmires plenty of time to escape, after all. They would have a fair opportunity to get out before the fire went too far. Swiftly, she pulled the car to the side of the road, getting out just in time to vomit again. 

All at once her emotions came back, surging with an uncorked pressure that felt like it could only have come from a bullet through her chest. She began sobbing, loud ugly sobs, sinking to her knees in the dirt of the roadside. Her cries wracked her frame, dissolved her bones, melted her resolve. She wept bitterly, keening into the empty night, trying to expel all of the suffering that contaminated her blood. The night seemed irreverently quiet, as if all of nature was watching her, the stars only existing for the purpose of unkind judgement. It may be unkind, but it certainly wasn't unfair, she thought, hating herself. Why did she have to be such a coward? What could she possibly do now? “What you have always done--survive” her deeper thoughts whispered to her. She stood herself up, wiping the dirt from her hands, reentering the car. She froze in her seat, still feeling the tears pouring down her face, but utterly powerless to stop them. 

Her hands were as heavy as drowned men's cannonballs as she lifted them to drive away, occasionally pushing the tears off her face, her cries dissolving into sporadic hiccups. There was no time to feel sorry for herself now. She had to be prepared for whatever came next. She had to be ready. She was in the hardest part of the plan now, but she would push through, and once she did, it would all be worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

The house felt haunted. She stood in the entrance, hesitant, feeling as if she was an intruder. Gingerly, she entered, feeling guilty as her footsteps creaked over the floor. She shivered, clutching her arms close to herself. She swore she could still smell the fire on her dress. Closing the door behind her, she pulled the dress over her head, feeling a sudden panic at her own guilt, as if the black fabric were the mocking floorboards beneath which her secret lay. She wondered if there would be enough evidence left of him for them to suspect murder. She ran into the kitchen, throwing up a third time before sinking to the floor, pale with her grief. She had never wanted this. She clutched at the fabric in her hands, pulling it tight against her knuckles. How could he do it so easily? What sort of deep repression does one need to even function at this point?   
Turning her head slightly to the side, she reached over to the cabinets beside her and pulled out the first liquor bottle she could find. Luckily it only had a foil close, and so she opened it quickly, raising it to her lips. It was sour, unkind on the tongue, similar in sensation to the anesthetics one would put over a scraped knee to clean it. She took another hard swallow. It burned her insides- no. It singed- no. It stung her sensitive throat, trekking down to her belly, making her feel a visceral map of every part of her it touched. She hated it, but even more so, she hated thinking right now, so she swallowed another mouthful, careful not to vomit again at the awful taste.   
She stayed on the floor for ages, listening to the ticking of the hall clock. Any minute now he would walk into the kitchen, demanding to know what she was doing with his alcohol. She took another drink. It became easier as she went along; pain is more easily endured once predicted. She would take a drink, give it a moment to settle, and then repeat. The bottle was pleasantly heavy in her hands, and as she continued, she found it harder and harder to lift.  
After a few replications of the pattern, she untied the ribbon from her hair, untangling it with her fingers. He liked it up. Standing swiftly, she braced herself against the counter, trying not to fall. Fuck him. He would not haunt her--he had gotten what he deserved. Taking the knife from the sink in one hand, and gripping the end of her braid with her other, she sliced through it swiftly, albeit unevenly.  
She stared at the tresses as they lay on the ground, dark ink smudges against the wooden floor. There. Now she couldn't put it up. She would destroy every part of herself he had ever admired, make herself new, unrecognizable. Sure, her actions were unforgivable, but with time she could become an entirely separate person, one he wouldn't recognize, finally freeing herself from his grip. Her legs shook beneath her, threatening to give out. Wearily, leaning on the wall for support, she made her way over to the couch, bottle in hand. She was almost done; she could practically taste her freedom. She would be with her siblings soon enough.   
She collapsed onto the couch- the same lumpy, uncomfortable one he had always had. Once again it served her as sanctuary, a small island of refuge. She took another sip from the bottle. The alcohol wasn't helping. If anything, it was making her thoughts more fluid, more difficult to control. She placed her head in her hands, her eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to think. Her thoughts were a pounding in her head; unforgiving, unrelenting, loud. How had he always managed it so easily? No. She wouldn't think of him.  
She pushed her way up, slipping back into her dissociated numbness. She had a lifetime to martyr herself, but this would all be worthless if she couldn't finish what she had started. Quietly, unsteadily, she made her way up the stairs.  
Her hand paused on the handle to the bedroom, reminiscent of that first night so long ago. Damn it, she didn’t care though. She couldn’t care. She pushed the door open, staring into the room. Had it only been that morning that she had been here last? It felt like ages ago. She walked in, stumbling, landing roughly on the bed. The red sheets. Had they always been so red? She closed her eyes, the swirling colors too much for her to handle. The room was beginning to spin about her, giving way beneath her feet. She lay back. Had the bed always been so large? She hadn’t noticed. She kicked her dress to the floor, not wanting to deal with it. It lay crumpled upon the floor, resigned to its role as scapegoat. She turned away, rolling onto her side, dizzy with the liquor. The room was so hot, so very very hot. It was no wonder he was always drunk--it kept you very warm. She was used to the slight warmth of wine, but this was a feverish heat. She gripped the duvet beneath her, hugging it against her chest, desperate to steady her swaying vision. Her heart beat in her ears, pounding at her, begging her to listen for just a moment. She didn’t have time--she couldn’t afford to. She shut her eyes tightly, willing the world to be still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off! 
> 
> As an offering of goodwill, I give y'all shorthair!Violet 
> 
> Keep talking to me, to the characters, I love all of it! I'm super excited to get this story underway, I have a few... ideas... in store for y'all that I'm hoping you'll like. 
> 
> Cheers


	3. Chapter 3

When she awoke, her head was a clattering of noise, even the light from the already high sun streaming through the window was unjustifiably loud. She forced her way up, wincing at the stiff pain of her joints. The room was cold, and even the act of shivering hurt. She lifted the bottle from where it lay beside her and took a small drink. “Just for the hangover,” she told herself. She lay back down, unable to move without angering her body. She groaned, covering her eyes with her hands. She could practically hear him mocking her for her overestimation of her own tolerance, let alone for having a tolerance at all. Even in death he was insufferable. Slowly, she pushed herself up, easing her way over to the wardrobe, wherein she pulled out the first dress she could find and slipped it over her head. She took another sip of the liquor and then reached to pull her hair up. Her gut dropped as she felt the tattered strands in her fingers. Spinning towards the mirror frantically, she surveyed the damage. It was bad. She frowned at the horribly uneven edges, jagged ends that looked like she had tried to style her hair with a can-opener. She groaned, cursing her drunk self for such a decision. Glumly, she made her way downstairs and into the kitchen.   
She put on a pot of water to boil and then began to search for a pair of scissors suitable enough to hopefully clean up if not repair the damage. She found a few, a suspicious amount really, and headed to the bathroom, hoping to minimize the disastrous effect. She stared in the mirror despondently, running her fingers through her hair. Sectioning it carefully between her fingers, she began to cut, matching its length to the shortest part.   
Once she finished, she couldn’t help but laugh at her reflection. He would be furious if he could see her now. The shorter style made her seem much older, although that might have just been her own feelings projecting onto the difference. She sighed, running her fingers through it one last time, feeling lighter if not better.   
The water was already boiling by the time she got back. The sunlight streaming through the window hurt her eyes to look at; it was offensively bright. She squinted, making her look rather upset at the cheerful day, she supposed. No wonder he had always seemed so angry. It really wasn’t fair of the sky to be so clear--all she had to do today was wait and hope no one figured too much out before she had the chance to get what she needed. She walked into the dining area, placing down the two mugs at their respective spots. She froze, staring at the extra cup, steaming with the hot black coffee. She hadn’t thought- it was just second nature by now. She lifted both mugs carefully, carrying them both into the kitchen to pour down the drain before making herself a cup of tea instead. Not for any particular reason, she just didn’t want coffee right now and that was fine. She was still nauseous from the liquor, it was fine, she didn’t need excuses for her behavior. She opted to further her independance from reason by taking her cup out to the garden instead of drinking it in the dining area, just because.   
It was crisply cold outside, the yellow light not enough to overshadow the creeping winter. The plants were almost entirely in hibernation, many of her beds lying fallow, empty for now, or forever she supposed. The thought was strange. She took a sip of her tea. The coldness crept into her still aching bones, and the feeling of the breeze against the back of her neck was strange. It felt as if all the world was waiting with her, curious to see what would happen next, whether or not it was all worth it. She took another sip of her tea, staring into the empty yard. They would all just have to wait together. 

It was noon before she made her way down to the police station, having had to take the time to make herself look like less of a hungover arsonist. Her gut rolled within her anxiously as she parked the car, making her way inside. She shoved her emotions down again, making herself steel, ice, stone. She made her way to the front desk, clutching her hands nervously.   
“Yes, can I help you?” A man looked up at her from the front desk distractedly as she approached him.  
“Yes, I- I need your help.”   
He nodded, taking out a pad of paper. “That’s what we’re here for, ma’am. Did you lose something?”  
“My husband.”  
He looked up at her, surprised.   
“Pardon?”  
She blinked quickly, willing some tears to rise but not letting them fall, playing every part the concerned wife. A sort of shallow pride bloomed in her chest. Who was he to have called her a bad actor?   
“My husband. He didn’t come home last night. I’m worried, I think something might have happened.”   
“Okay ma’am, if you could just wait one moment.” He lifted the phone receiver, dialing and then speaking quietly into the receiver.   
She looked away, examining the room. It was a small office, obviously more accustomed to lost wallets than missing persons cases. The officer placed down the phone, leaning in towards her, trying to keep his voice to a soothing tone.  
“When was the last time you saw your husband?”   
“Last night, after dinner. He was acting strange, and I asked him what was going on, and then he became angry and left with some friends. I thought he would come back--he does this time to time--but when he didn’t return this morning, I became worried.” She lowered her voice to a sheepish whisper, “They had been drinking, and I think something terrible might have happened.”  
“You say he does this often, any chance he’s off somewhere sleeping it off?”  
“No, he always comes back before even the sun comes up, repentant and usually hungry.”  
“I’ll have an officer come speak to you about getting a description. I wouldn’t worry too much though, these kinds of things happen all the time.” She nodded, feigning relief.   
“Thank you, thank you so much.”  
He smiled at her sadly, pityingly. For a moment she felt bad for lying to him, but she shoved it back down again. She didn’t have time to trip over her conscious right now. She was almost there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHORT HAIR VIOLET! I'm still excited about it! Now that I know y'all are talented, you can't withhold this from me. Mostly because I'm using it as a distraction for how much shit I've inflicted upon this poor girl.   
> I need to write a second alt-fic titled "Violet Has A Very Fun Day and Nothing Bad Happens."
> 
> Cheers


	4. Chapter 4

The house was still unnervingly quiet when she reentered. She wanted to run, to escape immediately, but doing so would only land suspicion on her. She would have to wait. She spread the papers in a circle about her on the floor, trying to pick out their meaning. They were just as confounding as before. She began to separate them according to how they looked; there were lists, documents, a handful of more plays, and a long series of maps, all riddled with coffee stains despite their immaculate preservation. She frowned at the large piles, no closer to the truth than she had been when she had started.   
How could she have lived here for four years and never noticed? She stared at her hands, which suddenly seemed incompetently small. She'd always been told she was clever, and she'd believed it, but how could a clever person miss something so intrical? If only she could ask him--no. She stood, leaving the papers on the floor. She wouldn't think about him. She went to her room, the small room off the side of the stairs. She paused in the doorway, thinking. They were technically all her rooms now, weren't they? With everything she had learned about inheritance law, it was quite likely that this was all hers. She ran her hand against the wood panel and then shivered, pulling her arms tight against herself. She didn't want it. She didn't want any of this, she wouldn't mind if… if…   
If it burned to the ground? A nagging thought interrupted her. She shoved it away, opening the door. She took out a piece of paper, her hands shaking, desperate to do something, anything. Sitting down, she addressed the letter, and then paused. The letter would arrive after her, there was no sense in sending it. The thought was strange, uncomfortably joyful within her. She stared at the blank page. Of course, knowing her luck, she'd be held up at some point, leaving them to wonder where she was. She chided herself again, they wouldn't wonder, they wouldn't even know she had left yet. Her fingers fidgeted nervously with the pen. What if they didn't want to see her? What if after all of this, they didn't believe she was any different than… than…  
She stared at the accusatorily empty page. She'd have to explain, to let them know that she wasn't a villain, or at the very least, that she didn't mean to be. But what were the words for that?   
She reached to tie her hair up, only to be startled again by the sudden lack thereof. Glumly, she tied the ribbon as a headband, at least able to keep the feathery edges from falling in her face.   
She lifted her pen again, hesitantly. She'd need to be factual, to go about the explaination as a scientist. She'd tell them exactly what happened… well, not exactly. She'd tell them more or less what happened. Although, “The man who made me a child bride said he loved me and I killed him” still didn't feel quite right. There was no way to say it well. She'd just have to rely on their understanding. She lifted the pen, setting it down against the page.   
“I may have done something terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jazz hands* Someone Help Her.
> 
> Thank you so much for every comment, message, and complaint you guys leave me--I cannot stress enough how excited I get when people interact with my writing. Moreover, thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who has sent me your very wonderful fanart, all of which is still up on the Tumblr, ourlittlesecretokay for your heathenistic viewing pleasure.   
> I know things are moving slow rn, but with any luck, it should pick up soon. I've got a few terrible things planned, so... we'll see.
> 
> Cheers


	5. Chapter 5

Her stomach growled. With a start, she realized she had been working for hours--the sky outside was already dark. Stretching as she stood, she made her way into the kitchen, looking for something she could prepare for just herself. It had been a while since she had been this alone for this long. She hummed to herself as she walked around the room, desperate to fill it with noise, but her nerves made the song pitchy, and so she gave it over eventually. She felt so small, like an echo within the house. She wondered if he would haunt her, even more so than he had when alive. She frowned at the notion. What a terrible thought, to have him over her shoulder for the rest of her life. And yet, her chest hurt in an unnamed sorrow. She shoved the feeling down.   
She began peeling a potato in the sink, watching the peel curl beneath the knife, falling onto the ceramic in spirals. She lifted her hand to her hair, feeling the abrupt ends brushing against the back of her neck before returning to her work. The knife slipped, nicking her finger. She cursed, lifting the small cut to her lips, shaking her hand in pain. She frowned, examining it closely. It wasn’t bad, but it stung like hell. She went back to her chopping, watching what she was doing more carefully; she mustn’t have been paying close enough attention. She dumped the potatoes into the pot of water she had brought to a boil. The bottle of liquor sat on the counter where she had placed it this morning. She eyed it cautiously. One drink couldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t let herself get drunk, not while cooking at least. 

A half an hour later she was sitting on the floor, drinking from the bottle, a half eaten plate of potatoes beside her. Why hadn't the police phoned yet? She glanced at the clock anxiously. His henchmen would know something was up--they would be coming to speak with him. She had thought she'd be gone by now, why was it taking so long? Her gut felt heavy within her, and not just from the liquor. She couldn't afford to wait much longer without his buffer, with them free to act as they would. She'd be lucky if they just killed her cleanly. She pushed the thought away, not wanting to vomit again. She'd give anything to be gone, anything for this not to be her reality. Staggeringly, she stood again, pulling herself to her feet. She made her way up the stairs less gracefully than she would have liked and reentered the bedroom.   
She glanced around. He had so many things- just, things. She had never noticed his clutter quite so clearly before. She frowned, and then began sifting through it, looking for a bag. Eventually she found an old briefcase. It wasn't the most attractive accessory, but it would do the job. She placed it on the bed, opening it with a snap of the hinges. She crossed the floor, pulling the wardrobe doors open. She didn't have much space, she'd only take what she needed for now. Swiftly, she pulled a few of the more practical dresses of the hangers, tossing them to the bed, following them with a series of socks and undergarments. She hesitated when she reached his clothes. They might come in handy--it was a lot easier to run when one was wearing pants. She took a pair, throwing them on the bed. She could hem them later, they only needed to be functional, not attractive.   
She opened the next set of doors and then paused. His shirts. There was no real need for those, and yet, they really were nice shirts. She reached out and stroked the sleeve of one. He did have good taste when it came to expensive things, she had to give him that. Or rather, he had good taste. She lowered her hand softly. She could use the shirts as layers, that was it; it was cold, and it would be helpful to have a few extra layers. She pulled a few from the hangers. She made sure to get the purple one, the one that was the color of plums. She placed them down, running her fingers against the smooth fabric. And then she was crying again, outsized tears escaping her, overflowing her, drowning her in their presence. “Stupid girl,” she chided herself, “you don't even know why you are crying.” She had no time to cry, and the action itself made her feel silly. It must be the alcohol, she reasoned, because it certainly wasn't her.   
And yet, her shoulders continued to shake as she sank to her knees, face buried in the shirt she was holding. Her sobs seemed to emanate from her bones; she felt certain that soon enough she would split clean in two. “Stop it,” she chided herself again. “You hated him. Don't you remember that? You hated him.” But still she wept, allowing herself to be swept up in all of the pain that was trying to push through, as though it were a bowling ball trying to get through a buttonhole. She desperately shoved at it, hoping to force it back down, but it was pouring out and would not, could not be stopped. She wept for herself, for her family, for her parents. She cried over every single thing she could think of, and found that she still wasn't done, still had an untapped valve within her that was obstinate in outpouring. “It must be shock,” she thought. “I just need more time.” And yet the weight never lessened, as it often will after one has spent a great deal of time crying.   
Crying in and of itself is a very troubling, tiring process, and though Violet found that she was quite tired of being sad, there was nothing she could do to stop it other than wait for it to finish. Waiting. More waiting.   
Still tear stained, she made her way into the bathroom, running the hot water in the tub. There are few things in this world that hot water cannot fix, but unfortunately, as she quickly discovered, this was one of them. She looked to the edge of the tub where he had sat her, examining her knife wound so long ago in what might have been his first act of kindness in years, and she began crying all over again. She let the hot water wash over her, making her skin red with its pressure and warmth, allowing herself to sink down and just be in pain. The tricky thing about pain is that is seldom listens to reason. She didn't need to explain her pain; it simply was and continued to be, indifferent to her feelings on the matter.   
She didn't know how long she spent in there, but she allowed herself the luxury of just sitting and crying until eventually her cries subsided to sniffles, which gave over to scattered hiccups.   
Steam rose from the water, swirling up and around in the air. She moved her hand through the water slowly, watching her palm through the imperfect glass of the ripples. Her knees were tight to her chest, the water coming up to the cusp of her breasts. She sighed, leaning back, letting herself sink in until the water was level with her shoulders. She closed her eyes. Maybe she could dissolve, disappear, go up with the steam. She stretched her arms out, leaning forward, running her fingers along the length of her legs. She frowned at them. She'd never really noticed them before. Granted, she was always aware of them, but her legs had mercifully enough never been something people felt the need to comment on. She moved her hands up until her fingers rested in the crook behind her knee, pressed to the tender skin at the back of her legs. She decided that she liked her legs, she liked the fact that no one had this far felt the need to comment on them. She sank down further into the bath until the water rose to the level of her nose. She closed her eyes again, letting time pass by without her.


	6. Chapter 6

Her eyes began to sting from the residual salt. Languishedly, she rinsed her face and then reluctantly rising, grabbed a towel to pat herself dry.   
She braced her hands against the countertop, examining her reflection in the mirror. Her face was an unattractive red, her eyes swollen from the tears. Her hair was still somewhat uneven, and her shaking arms were translucently pale, dotted with splotchy red from the warmth of the water. She straightened up, turning away. At least she didn't have to worry about how others thought she looked anymore. She never cared for her features, as they were often cited as evidence against her. Some days she wanted to wipe her face clean off, begin all again with a face no one thought to look twice at. Certainly not a face one would try to marry. She froze, staring at her legs, peeking out from under the towel. She was a widow already. She laughed, holding her hand to her eyes. She was a widow. An orphan and a widow before she turned 20. Not to mention an arsonist. She laughed again, removing her towel to dry her hair. Her reflection in the mirror stared back, equally scraggly, an anguished smile showing her teeth. It felt like years since she had last seen her reflection naked. She was surprisingly sturdy for how fragile she felt.  
She pivoted, watching her legs. She had been right to like them; they were good running legs, strong. She looked at herself for a minute more, and then turned away again.   
She reentered the room feeling somewhat more in control. She would spend the night and stop by the police station in the morning, give them a forwarding address. She would go right now if not for the liquor still in her system. Escape was of no use if you immediately died. She reached for a night dress and then paused, picking up one of the soft shirts she had grabbed from his closet. It was a rich green the color of pine trees, and as she pulled it over her shoulders, buttoning the front, it fell over her frame softly, invitingly. He did have good, if strange, taste, she mused, rubbing at her arm. Gently, she gathered the papers off the floor, moving them into a stack. She was almost at ease- she doubted she would ever be at ease again, but this was the closest she had come in a while. She was in charge now. She hadn't been in charge… ever. She moved the stack to her makeshift suitcase. She was almost there. She made a mental note to return her library books before she left. She felt sorry to leave them unfinished, but she couldn't bring herself to steal them away. She turned over the worn copy of “The Awakening” in her hands. Well, maybe just one, but no more than that. She placed the book in the bag and then snapped it shut with a satisfying click.  
Moving to the bed, she laid down tiredly. She was almost free. It wouldn't be much longer now. There was the sound of a doorknob rattling downstairs. She sat bolt upright, her heart beating fast. She froze, listening for more sounds. Perhaps it was just her imagination. But then there was the creaking sound of a door opening, and her heart sank to her stomach. She thought they'd stay off until tomorrow; what the hell was she supposed to do? She couldn't fight them off. Unless… she reached over to his side of the bed, opening the drawer. As she had expected, there was an unreasonable amount of dangerous items to be found. She selected a knife, holding it as he had shown her, and then standing quietly, crept out of the room, suitcase in hand. She had the advantage now; they didn't know that she was home and aware of their presence. She didn't necessarily need to fight them off; she just had to be quicker than they were.   
She crept down the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs. She could hear rattling in the kitchen, and the sound of men’s voices. Her gut clenched. A bottle popped open, laughter following the sound. She took advantage of the situation, tiptoeing down the stairs and across the entrance parlor. It sounded as though they were all in the kitchen; she would make it out clean as long as they didn't hear her. She crept past, the car keys already in her hand with the suitcase, as her right hand slowly turned the doorknob, trying to keep it from creaking. She opened it just enough to slide through, making her way out and into the cold night.   
She hurried down the walk, bolting for the car, her hands shaking as she fumbled at the lock. She slipped into the driver's seat, before stopping, staring at her still shaking hands. Cautiously, she flicked the key over in the ignition, keeping the headlights off. Glancing behind her briefly, she pulled out and away, heading into the encroachingly dark night. 

She didn't really know where it was she was planning on going. She couldn't leave the city yet, not without giving the police a forwarding address, and fleeing in the night did little to paint her as innocent. She kept glancing in her mirrors, paranoid, waiting to see someone following her. No car ever appeared long enough to warrant suspicion, but still, that didn't do much to alleviate her fear. She drove straight through the city, only stopping an eternity later, drawn toward the neon siren call of a motel in the distance. She pulled into the parking lot quickly, shutting the car off. The silence was oppressive in the open air. She tried to convince herself not to be sick.   
Upon looking down, she very quickly remembered that she was not, in fact, wearing sensible clothes. Moving precariously, she slid herself into the backseat before opening her makeshift luggage and removing a pair of shoes and a dress which she quickly slipped on over the shirt, not having the desire to get changed in a shady motel parking lot.   
Quietly, still terrified, she opened the car door, slipping out and treading lightly to the main entrance, suitcase in tow. 

It wasn't hard to get a room--they didn't ask many questions beyond payment. The room was dirty, but she had made do with less. She ran her fingers through her hair and then realized with a start that her hands were still trembling. She wrapped her arms tight about herself, clutching at her shaking frame, trying to force herself into a calmness. She paced, anxious, unsure what it was that she should do, or even what she could do. She had to get out, get to her family, get to safety. Yet she couldn't do any of that until morning. It wasn't even that late, she thought bitterly. Why did they have to come now?   
No doubt they were curious about the lack of regalities and celebrations following their victory. She continued pacing, rubbing at her arms, trying to warm herself. She was freezing, even though her heart was racing at an alarming rate. She stopped, sinking onto the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. What had she done? They would figure it out soon, that was a given. She just needed to evade them long enough to give her address and move along. After that… well, she could deal with that later. She pulled off the worn dress and shoes she had so haphazardly stuffed herself into, reluctantly laying down on the bed. The morning would come with its fair share of problems, but that was no reason why she should keep herself in helpless anticipation.   
Regardless, she didn't sleep that night, too focused on the patterns of the ceiling and every single sound outside her window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so late in updating- I'm stuck home sick, and I've spent the day in and out of sleep. Regardless, enjoy Heathens
> 
> Cheers


	7. Chapter 7

It was cold, sleeping alone, without even the comfort of a friendly glass of wine to keep her anxieties at bay. She stared at the ceiling, feeling perfectly abysmal until she gathered the strength to stand and face the day. What else could she do? It was better to face the troubles that haunted her and escape them than it was to wallow in her fear. She owed herself that much.   
It would be a long drive to the school, but she could make it by the day after tomorrow if she didn’t stop. Her stomach turned within her, nervous yet exalted at the thought of seeing her siblings again. She made her way to the shower, aiming to strip herself of all the grime of every moment up until now. She still felt buried under a layer of ash from the fire, and was convinced that she would carry that smudge with her for the rest of her life, but at least she could do this.   
She pulled off the shirt, having securely closed the door behind her, and twisted the knob to heat the water.   
There's something inherently disquieting about being naked in an unfamiliar room, and as Violet waited those long moments for the water to heat up, she felt as if she were about to be murdered at any moment. Naturally, no such thing happened, but that didn't make the fear any less real.  
She stepped into the hot water, splashing it against her face, scrubbing away at the sleeplessness that plagued her still. She sighed, rolling her hands along her joints, trying to massage out the fear. It permeated her; stuck to her skin, her clothes, her hair. As the hot water covered her, blanketing her in a false sense of security, she closed her eyes, once again wishing everything away.   
Pretty soon it wouldn't have to be a wish, she reminded herself. She would be free, well and truly free. Yes, it was ill-gained freedom, but that didn't make it any less substantial. She ran her fingers through her slick hair. It was almost done.   
She allowed herself longer in the shower than she needed, gifting herself the small privilege of a moment of intimacy, allowing herself to just be warm and quiet. It had been so long since she had quiet. The feeling had a learned apprehension to it that had settled into her bones, but she pushed past it, desperate for just a moment of niceness before the journey continued. She deserved a moment of niceness at least. 

She sat in the car, staring at the unfolded map she had excavated from the glove compartment. She hadn't realized just how far she had driven last night. She was lucky she hadn't had any trouble. She stared at the tangle of routes, trying to locate herself relative to the police station. She had to make her way back there before she could do anything else. It would only take a moment, just long enough to give them a forwarding address to reach her at, and then she'd be off, out of the city, free to begin again. She stared at the road signs, trying to figure out which way was north. Since she had more or less driven to the middle of nowhere, she didn't see anything that would be much help.   
Squinting, she looked up toward the still-low sun, using it to gauge east, and then inferring the general direction from there. She could stop at a gas station for better directions later. Her heart thrumming, she took the wheel back in her hands, pulling out and away, relieved to be leaving something else behind her. 

It was a while before she finally came across a place to stop; had she really driven this far last night? She stepped out of the car, heading inside to give the attendant some money for the pump. The sky had gone grey, preganant with a potential rain. A few drops settled on her skin like freckles as she walked into the small shop. She shifted the oversized shirt across her shoulders nervously. She didn't know why she was wearing it, there was no reason really other than the fact that it matched the dress quite well and had a pleasing texture. She had tied it in the front at the bottom, making it a strange sort of cardigan.   
She paid the attendant for the gas, plucking a bottle of soda out of a refrigerator to buy as well. She felt odd to have him so unphased by her presence, she was used to everything she did becoming an object of scrutiny. She had the sudden urge to confide in him, to let this strange teenage boy know that she was both capable of and guilty of hideous crimes. She didn't though, taking her soda and going, trying to ignore the pervasive feeling of unease that filled her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep talking to me, yelling at me, sending indecipherable key smashes my way. And thank you so much for sticking around - I'm so glad people are still listening to the story I'm trying to tell 
> 
> Cheers


	8. Chapter 8

The city felt haunted. She wondered if perhaps she was the culprit, the reason why every landmark behind her felt infested with ghosts. She was responsible for at least one of them, but how much of the rest was bad luck, and how much was her? Logically, she knew she didn't do anything to merit such misery, or at least, up until now she hadn't. She shoved the thought down, turning the car down towards the police station. She paused, thinking. After she talked to the police, she could leave the car behind somewhere, buy a train ticket, make her escape all the more untraceable. It seemed like a good idea, an intelligent one at least. She drove down the familiar streets, feeling unnecessarily suspicious as she moved about in the now light rain. It felt as if someone had stitched the word “imposter” across her, making everything she did reek of villainy. Her hands trembled as she stopped the car, getting out and making her way into the station.

There was a different man sitting at the desk this time. She walked up, straightening her clothes, trying to convince both of them that she was an adult. He looked up, bored, as she approached.  
“Yes, what can I do for you today, Miss?”  
“I wanted to follow up on my missing husband.”  
His eyebrows raised slightly at her words, “You’re the- Okay, yes, of course. Do you have any further information?”  
“No,” she drew slight circles on the table with her index finger, “except to say that I’m leaving to stay with my brother, and wanted to leave a forwarding address.”   
The man crinked his forehead somewhat, “Have you left this information with a neighbor? Perhaps someone who can alert you if he returns home?” She paused, biting off her initial response of “What for?”  
“Yes… the next door neighbor has the address and number at which to reach me.”  
“Excellent,” he took out some forms from a filing drawer, “can you leave the number to reach you at here?”   
She took the pen, hesitating, staring at the blank space. She looked up at him again, “He doesn’t have a phone number.”  
The man frowned, “But you just said you left a number for your neighbor?”  
“I misspoke.” She froze again, unsure. “He’s a bit old-fashioned, so. You know.”  
“Okay, sure, just leave the address here. It’ll be slower, though. You should really get him to invest in a phone.”  
“I’ve been trying.” She whispered, filling out the paperwork then handing it back over.  
“Alright, then,” he perused the forms, “everything seems to be in order, Miss, er, Mrs.,--Have a good day. We’ll be in contact.” She smiled lightly, doing her best impression of a grown woman who was in control of her life, before stepping out of the doors back outside again. 

How could they still have no information? She felt uneasy, wishing that the whole thing was over and done with. She couldn’t exactly walk in and tap them on the shoulder, saying “You should check the closets of that house that burnt down a few miles off; those was his favorite places to hang out.” It had been two full days now that the body had been buried there, waiting. She stopped, gripping the handrail tight, trying to keep herself from retching. She forced a deep breath into her lungs. This was fine. It was going to be fine.   
What if they didn’t find the body though? What if she was too good at her job? She thought it over, wondering. She still had some control over what remained of her family fortune, didn’t she? She honestly wasn’t sure. She wondered how suspicious it would be if she stopped by the bank before she left, enquiring to the state of her affairs. 

She sighed as she slipped into her seat, reaching into her pocket for her ribbon to tie her hair back for the drive. Her fingers fumbled across the empty fabric. She frowned, and turning in her seat, reached for the suitcase.  
She opened the lock, shifting through the fabric and then froze. How hadn’t she noticed earlier? She had been too caught up in her escape, she forgot to check.   
The papers; they weren’t there.   
She rummaged through the case frantically, waiting for them to suddenly appear, tucked somewhere between the clothes, but they obstinately refused to materialize. Her heart sped up. She couldn't have left them; she wouldn't. And yet, her reality refused to listen to her logic, and they did not appear. She groaned, covering her face with her hand. How could she have been so stupid?   
They must be in the house still, left behind in her haste. She stared at her hands vacantly. She couldn't go back. There was no way. She hesitated, weighing the odds.   
They wouldn't expect her to come back. They'd have left by now, and would be out looking for her. There was a good chance that she'd be able to slip in and out quickly, and--no, she couldn't. It wasn't worth it. She needed to leave.   
She sat in the car, not leaving.   
This was all worthless if she didn’t have any knowledge to show for it; without those papers she’d be no better off than when she started. How could she protect her siblings if she didn’t even know what she was fighting against?  
She turned the car on, pulling out and away, fixated on her goal.

The rain was falling heavy now. She kept to the shadows as she made her way up the street. She had hoped to never come here again, yet here she was, less than 24 hours later. The house was a monolith staring down on her. She stared back, trying to inspire herself to resiliency. She had made it out once. She could do it again.

The back door didn't betray her, keeping silent as she entered. It made her sad to see her garden so… vanquished. It was as if everything behind her was dead. But now was not the time for that. She slipped into the kitchen, her fingers running across the familiar countertop. She felt like an intruder, bastardizing what was once her haven, but she didn't have much choice. The sound of laughter came from the other room.   
Shit.   
Her blood ran cold as she tried to even her breaths, terrified. How could she have been so stupid? She was an idiot. Why were they here? She cursed at herself again, making her way over to the drawer, pulling it open softly. The cooking utensils stared back at her warily, menacingly, as she ran her fingers across them, searching for a substantial enough carving knife. He heart pummeled her ribs, throwing itself about her chest, obstinate in its desire to make her pay for her idiocy. How could she be so stupid? Selecting a knife, she crept slowly towards the kitchen exit. All she had to was avoid them, and she'd be free. It sounded like they were in the dining room; she’d just need to make it through the parlor and up the stairs. She was small, she could do that.  
Her hand gently reached for the brass knob of the door, turning it lightly in her hand, mentally begging it not to betray her.   
The door opened obediently, a muffled click the only evidence that she had been there at all. She sighed in relief.  
A voice came from about a foot above her.  
“What the hell did you do to your hair?”   
She froze, and then looking up, up, up, was met by a familiar pair of shiny eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I'm going to be taking my final exams these next two weeks, so please have patience with me if my updates are late. I'm using this fic as an incentive to get my work done, but no promises are being made, as college is #theworst. I'm going to try to keep it all timely as I can, but on that note, enjoy your cliffhanger 
> 
> Cheers


	9. Chapter 9

His lips were pursed in his typical smirk, a sneer of superiority that he imagined was quite becoming on him. Most things were. She stared at him, the blood flowing from her face, making her as pale as the sort of specter she no doubt took him for. Her lips hung open, her words tied behind her tongue. He reached out, tucking some of the hair behind her ear with a frown.   
“And it's wet, no less. I leave you alone for one day and you make it your life’s goal to catch hypothermia.” She stared at him, unspeaking, her eyes alive with fear and disbelief. He smiled down at her again.  
“What, no words for your husband, back from the dead?” Taking his finger, he lifted her chin, shutting her still parted lips, “Or would you rather just continue taking my shirts and making a break for it?” She stepped away from his touch, transfixed on his face.   
“You're dead.” She whispered, still clearly in shock. He leaned down so that they were eye-to-eye.  
“My Dear,” his voice had an icy curl to it, “it is easier to kill a roach.” 

…

His first thought had been of her.   
Violet.  
The house was hot, and smoke filled the air. When he sat up, the room spun about him, his pounding head making him wince in pain.   
Violet.  
He looked about himself desperately. She was gone, as were the papers. Clever girl. He coughed, smoke in his lungs. At least she was safe. Presumably she was safe. He pulled himself to his knees, trying to move under the smoke.   
He headed for the cellar, aiming to escape before detected, but the doorframe was expelling smoke at an alarming rate. She must have set fire to the stairs, he mused, smiling despite himself. He had underestimated her again. However, that did fuck him over quite a bit; he had no idea where the door was. Looking around him quickly, he saw a large window at the end of the hall. Staying low, he made his way over. The room became increasingly hotter, the flames licking their way up the walls. She was a natural.   
Finally, he reached the window. Smoke came up in plumes, reaching the ceiling in billowing clouds of ash. He didn't want to stand, afraid he wouldn't last too long. Looking about, he found a uselessly decorative centerpiece; an ugly clay statue that the world could do without. Lifting it, he threw it against the glass, shielding his eyes. It bounced off, breaking, but left a substantial crack. He took his shoe off, and wrapping his sleeve around his hand, hit at the glass directly on the crack. Eventually it shattered, cascading about him as though he were the center of a very deadly snow globe. He climbed through the shards gingerly, careful not to slice himself on the jagged edges. The smoke followed him close behind, pouring out this new exit. He landed on the ground roughly, bracing himself up with his hands. The grass was damp, and the sudden coldness penetrated his skin.   
The darkness of the night was all-consuming, the plumes of smoke disappearing into the ink sky. He staggered to his feet, slipping away painfully, desperate not to be there when the authorities arrived.

…

He grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her back against the door. Her face was filled with fear, such delicious fear. She let him take the knife from her hand, dropping it to the ground. He leaned in, only inches away from her, snarling smilingly.   
“Why so surprised, Dear? You act as though you aren't happy to see me. Don't tell me you aren't loving every moment of this.” She ducked her head away, petrified. He gripped her chin, snapping it back up. “Look at me when I speak to you.” He felt her jaw clench. There was such hatred in her eyes, burning, defeated hatred. Good. “And you will answer me when I address you.”  
She shoved out of his grip, causing him to grab her tightly by the arm, pulling her along with him, out towards the parlor. She cried out at his tight grasp, trying fruitlessly to wrangle her way out. He grabbed at her, holding her tight, shoving his hand into her pockets, taking his keys back before roughly releasing her.  
“I’ll be taking those, thank you. Now, if you would like to survive until the end of the night, you really ought to to go dress nicely; we’ll be needing someone to serve the wine.”   
“Fuck you.” She spit the words like shards of glass out from between her teeth. And then she was on the ground, her elbow smacking into the hard floor loudly. The back of his hand stung where he had struck her, but she didn't cry out, he noticed disappointedly. He folded his hands behind his back, glowering over her.   
“I expect you in five minutes sharp. Try as best you can to make yourself presentable--I know it is a difficult task.” 

She didn't move off the floor, feeling the sharp burn across her cheek. He would kill her. He was going to kill her. She pushed herself up, her limbs crying out in pain. No, he wouldn't kill her, he'd think of something even worse, something to make her wish she was dead. Her body felt heavy with dread. She had acted selfishly, and now her siblings were going to pay the price. Why couldn't she have left well enough alone, let them live out their lives happily without her? She lifted her make-shift suitcase, making her way up the stairs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She longed to fly out of her body, out of her head. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. This was a dream. It was all a dream. But try as she might, she could not make it disappear. They were all damned now, and it was all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm yellin
> 
> Cheers


	10. Chapter 10

He shouldn't have hit her.  
He shoved the thought down, suffocating it. There was no reason for him to have not to.   
He should have known--she came from bad blood; she was just like all the others. That would teach him to act with kindness. He had so often been on the other side of the deception, how had he fallen for her trap so easily? She was clever, he had forgotten that, had miscalculated her abilities. Damnable girl.   
He had had to lie to cover his fault, had told them a convenient story so that they wouldn't suspect his folly. The injury had been a bit harder to explain, but people tend not to ask too many questions when they are afraid of you. He at least had that going for him. Stupid girl had less sense than the rest of his troop combined; she should have known she could never best him.   
And yet, the look of hatred with which she had regarded him was not one of someone who was afraid and resigned. She was angry, angry that she had failed, angry that he so inconveniently hadn't died, and she would no doubt try to rectify that. He wouldn't give her a second chance though. She would pay. He took a sip of his wine. He would break her. She would either fall into her place beneath him or would be disposed of, but he would have no mercy this time. There was a tightening in his chest at the thought, a residual symptom of affection. He would unlearn it fast enough. There was no time for such nonsense.   
She entered the room, and at the sight of her, his heart plummeted to the floor.   
She had always been unnervingly pale for her skin tone, but she now had a purple tint to her face that he hadn't noticed in the darkness of the entrance hall. The bags under her eyes looked almost like bruises, comparable to the actual bruise forming on her cheekbone. Good, maybe she would learn her lesson, but still, he felt uneasy. There was no reason for him to feel guilty; she had tried to kill him, and all he had done was hit her, but still his conscious panged him. He looked away, unable to watch her any longer. This would become easier with time, he just needed to stay strong for now. He was acting like a sentimental fool. Maybe now he would learn to not act against his better judgement.

She couldn't look at him, couldn't acknowledge him. He seemed blissful ignoring her, banishing her back to the white noise of the room. That was fine, she didn't care. She wouldn't care if he never spoke to her again. All she had wanted was her freedom; surely he could understand that. Was that so terrible? And yet, it was. She hadn't felt this afraid of him in a long time. He had never been a comforting presence, but they had shifted towards some sort of comfortable understanding, the same way that a knife at your back is only comforting in the fact that it is not yet IN your back, and might, in fact, still be used against another's back, if necessary. But now? Now she was drowning in unknowns. What could she do?   
She refilled his glass coldly. She had purposefully picked out the worst wine she could find. It was a petty, unsubstantial revenge, but it was something that she could do. She needed him to believe that she wasn't afraid of him. Although, the very fact that she hadn’t taken the moment to try to run condemned her. Where could she go? She wouldn’t get very far before being overtaken and most likely destroyed. She had lost, again.

The wine was godawful. He knew she must have done it on purpose; she knew him too well. Adorable. She glanced over at him slyly, no doubt hoping to catch his reaction. Clearing his throat, he held his arm out at length, and then dropped the glass to the floor.   
She looked over at him, coldly, expressionless.   
“Try again.”   
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't respond, turning to leave the room. He caught her by the arm, holding her tight, “Bring it back uncorked.” She pulled her arm free, and then escaped through the door. He leaned his head against his hands, the laughter of the others pounding against his skull. What the hell was he going to do? He could never leave her unsupervised again. Logically, he knew he had to kill her, but something in him rioted against that. It wouldn't be satisfying enough. He needed to win, to see her defeated, to have her acknowledge him as the great man he was, to have her bend to him. How was he supposed to do that if she was dead? No, outright killing her would give him no joy. He massaged his eyes. So many excuses.   
“You doin’ alright?” He looked up. One of his henchmen was addressing him, the one with no pinkies.   
“Yes, I just need that infernal girl to stop taking her time with the wine.” The man smiled, laughing at his words.  
“Don't be too hard on her--she may come in handy from now on.”   
“Yes, quite.” His words were barely above a whisper.”  
The man hesitated, “You should get that injury looked at though. Don't want it to get more serious.”   
Olaf straightened his posture, sneering, “I didn't live this long by going to see doctors, and I hardly plan to start now.”   
The man shrugged, indifferent, before turning to walk away, “Alright, you know best.”  
She reappeared with the new bottle of wine, still uncorked. He raised his eyebrow at the proffered bottle.   
“And? Is it going to open itself.” Her jaw tightened, but she offered no comment as she turned to leave. “The bottle stays here.” She slammed it onto the table a bit louder than necessary, causing a few of the members of the men to glance over. He did his best to appear unperturbed, as if it made no difference to him at all, but inside he seethed at her insolence. She reappeared with a corkscrew a few minutes later, opening the bottle before depositing it into his hands, as he quickly snatched it away from her. He waved her off with a flick of his wrist, not even bothering to look at her. 

Her insides mourned. This was all her fault. She should have known better, should have done better. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The troop members continued their chatter, celebrating the victory. She wondered what he had told them, whether he had lied about her treachery. She supposed he had, otherwise there was no way they'd be quite so relaxed around her.   
One of the men, the one with only half an ear, pressed a full wine glass to her hands. She looked up at him, confused.   
“Do you want something else?”   
“No, it's for you; relax, you deserve it. We were wondering when you’d come join us.” She took the cup hesitantly, glancing over at Olaf out of the corner of her eye. She could practically see the hatred radiating off of him.   
She smiled politely at the man, hoping to escape the situation unscathed, “Thank you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the group. There weren't many there, perhaps five or six total. They raised their glasses towards her as they drew near, smiling. It made her nervous; she wasn't used them them noticing her.   
“Have to admit, I was a bit doubtful, but I'm glad to say you proved me wrong.” The man with no pinkies spoke, and she realized, startled, that he was addressing her.  
“Absolutely.” The man with the silver nose spoke up. “Shame the job wasn't quite finished, but you're a natural as far as fire-setting goes. You almost had it; we just need to fix you up on pest control.” The group laughed. The knot in her stomach loosened a bit. The Quagmires must have escaped. The thought made her glad, and she smiled, trying to pass her relief off as arson-based pride.   
“Yes, quite.” Olaf’s long fingers curled around the nape of her neck, holding her in a tight grip. She stiffened, trying not to let her terror show. “One should never leave the job unfinished, though. Who knows what sort of… messes it could lead to.”  
“She’ll learn,” one of the men spoke with a smile. There was a quality of condescension in his tone, but not a malicious one.   
His troop liked her now. She wouldn't need his protection anymore, and perhaps he was realizing that. She had her own power and her own plans, she didn't need him like they did. Things were about to become just that much more dangerous.


	11. Chapter 11

His troop didn't leave until late, much too busy celebrating their victory. Every time they smiled at her, he wanted to throw things, to make them regret their ill-placed kindness. They had no idea what kind of treachery she was capable of. He knew her though, and soon enough, so would they. Once again he would be the clever leader who saw all, perceived all, controlled all. He watched the door shut behind the last of them, and then turning to her, dropped the bottle in his hand to the ground, enjoying the sound it made as it shattered.   
“Yes, well, you have quite a lot to do, so I'll let you get to it.” She turned behind her, surveying the damage of the night dismally.   
“You really didn't need to break so much glass.”   
“You really didn't need to try to kill me.” 

He had her there. He walked out the doorway, leaving her behind.   
She picked the shards up off the floor quietly, wrapping them in a spare rag. She paused, and then surreptitiously tucked the bundle into her pocket, just in case. It had come in handy last time. The wine that had remained in the bottle now formed a puddle on the floor, and as she looked at it, her reflection stared back glumly.   
This was not how it was supposed to happen. Nevertheless, she would think of something. She always had. She tied her hair up, surveying the room again quickly, and then headed out to find the mop.

She hadn’t even had the foresight enough to park the car far away, idiot girl. It was only a block or two off, it didn’t take long at all to find. He frowned. For someone so clever, she really was stupid. One of his bags sat in the car. He grabbed it and then walked back, not wanting to bother with so menial a drive at the moment. He could hear her working in the dining hall as he walked up the stairs. Her presence burned him.  
The drawers and wardrobes were all thrown open in the room, no doubt due to her attempt to steal from him, the lying cheat. She was a succubus, a siren, sent for the sole purpose of making him suffer. He fell onto the bed, groaning. His head still throbbed where she had bludgeoned him. How could someone so little be so unbelievably strong? He was just lucky she wasn't quite strong enough. He rolled over, kicking off his shoes. He'd make her straighten up his room tomorrow, there was no excuse for it to be in such disrepair. He glanced to his left and saw the briefcase, still unopened, laying on the floor. Curiously, he stood, striding over to it. He clicked the locks open, and then pulling the contents out, examined them individually.  
She was obviously new to planning heists. She had packed an unreasonable amount of his own clothes for god-only-knows-what reason. Probably as trophies to celebrate. That was substantially creepy. She had been wearing his shirt when she came back. Perhaps she liked murder just a bit too much. He shivered.  
She had also packed a great deal of dresses, and a library book (stealing from a library, that was new). For some reason, she had missed the entirety of the papers from the Quagmires. Idiot girl. Throwing the clothes aside, he took the papers in his hands, examining them. Was she really that stupid, or was this why she had come back? He flipped through them quickly, making a brief inventory of what they had collected. She obviously had no idea what these were, otherwise she'd have never left them behind.   
“Are you looking for something?”   
He turned around and stood swiftly, meeting her tired gaze.   
“Just taking my things back.” He spoke with a snarl. “You won't be seeing these again any time soon.” He waved the papers in her face. She looked at him, exhausted.   
“Keep them. I can't read them anyway.”   
He squinted his eyes in disbelief.  
“You're a terrible double agent.”  
“I'm not a double agent.”   
“Oh really? You just happened to be working against the cause you claimed to promote? Tell me, what exactly did the Quagmires say that was oh-so-enticing enough to convince you to betray your previously so very noble ideals of not killing people?”   
She looked tired, making a nice portrait of the way he felt.  
“I'm not working for anybody. Everything I've done is of my own accord. Now please, I'm so tired, can I just get my things so I can go to sleep?” 

He leered down at her, his teeth the stakes of a haphazard picket fence. He shoved her backwards roughly. “So, just come traipsing along, hoping for another chance, thinking you got away with it?” He pushed her again and her arm hit the wall. She didn’t react, demurely stepping out of his way.  
She sighed, rubbing at the part of her shoulder that had hit the wall. “I just want my clothes.”

“Don't you mean my clothes?” He waved a handful of his shirts in her direction. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?” He threw them on the ground disgustedly. She stared at them blankly, and then turning, walked out the door without another word. Her lack of response only made him angrier. He wanted her to rave, to make her excuses, to explain herself. Anything was better than this faux-resignation.   
For the first time in ages, he didn't know what to do. Slowly, he sank back onto the bed, feeling utterly lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your kind/upset comments! I love every one of them!! Also I want to give a personal shout out to eternallost who has evidently made it their life's mission to make me cry with the amount of art they send me. Their work is beautiful, and you should definitely check it out. I'm at the end of finals, so hopefully I can get on a better update schedule soon. Thank you guys for sticking with me, y'all are Heathens and I appreciate you 
> 
> Cheers


	12. Chapter 12

She had forgotten how terrible the couch was. Quite frankly, it surprised her that he locked her out of his room rather than trying to lock her in somewhere else, but she decided not to question the little that she still had.   
She had spent the night watching the hateful ceiling, feeling that the house was a cage she was trapped in. The salt of silent tears burned her eyes. Crying did no good, but she was powerless to stop it, lying fallow on the rough upholstery, watching the darkness.

She didn't know what to do. She couldn't apologize--she wouldn't. She wasn't sorry for what she had done, not really. And yet, the mourning in her chest mingled with a tired relief. He wasn’t dead. She hadn’t killed him. She wasn’t a murder, wasn’t his murderer. No doubt someone would kill him someday, but for now, it wasn’t her. She hated the fact that he was all that she knew, but she couldn't change that. What was she to do? She gazed out the window of the kitchen glumly. She'd never had the chance to be an adult on her own; her very concept of identity was forced to revolve around him. No matter what she did, it always came back to him. She felt very stupid for thinking she could break free; everything came back to him. He would always win. And he hated her now. Nothing was worse that an infatigable opponent who only wanted to see your world burn.   
She stared at the hot coffee pot in her hands. Slowly, she placed it down onto the counter, and gently rested her hand against it. She squeezed her eyes shut at the pain willing herself to endure it just a moment more, removing her fingers only after she couldn't bear it any longer. Her skin was a swollen red, and she focused all of her energy on the sharp, visceral pain that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She closed her eyes again. Yes, she was well and truly fucked.   
She walked into the dining hall, placing the cups down on the table and then cursing beneath her breath. She had done it again. She sank into a chair, unsure what to do. No doubt she would be in trouble if she neglected to prepare a cup for him, but the thought of making him breakfast was so heinous, so hateful, she didn’t know what to do. As she stared at the cup, it seemed more and more a metaphor for her own damnation. Her thoughts clattered about her head as the pain seared through her fingers; she didn’t know what to do; what was she supposed to do? What could she possibly do? The light streaming through the window was too loud, too bright, too much, she was too lost, and she stood quickly, knocking both cups to the floor with a swift swipe of her arm. They clattered against the wall, shattering, staining the paper in a violent pattern. The piercing sound cried out and echoed within her, providing some sensation of relief as it broke the oppressive quiet. She stood there, her breath growing heavy as she tried to slow it.   
Hesitantly, she crossed the room, kneeling on the floor before the ceramic shards. They were shattered beyond repair. Gently, she picked up a triangular piece, holding it in her palm. It was still warm from the coffee and throbbed against the sensitive skin. She closed her fingers around it, tightening her grip, letting the harsh edges dig into her, letting herself feel the pain. She didn’t stop, even when her tears began to fall across her, dripping to the floor, mingling with the mess. She didn’t know how to stop any of it.

 

He wanted to kill her. He really really wanted to kill her. No, he wanted to destroy her. No, he… he wanted her out of his damn life. He wanted her gone, he wanted her sorrowful, he wanted her beside him- no.   
He wanted to kill her. He needed to stay focused. But how was he supposed to focus when every sound made him jump, terrified she was attempting to seek her revenge? He hadn't left the room all morning, not wanting to make a move until he was sure of what it was he was going to do.  
How could she do this? He had underestimated her, and now he needed to kill her. It was horrifying, having her move about the house, getting into who-knows-what. He didn't trust her, and he shouldn't. He needed to kill her. He needed to pull her close against him, feel her fold underneath him, her treacherous touch against his--no. No. He couldn’t think about the fact that the whole situation was highly erotic; she had tried to kill him. He should be furious, not somewhat scared and mostly turned on. She was a snake, a viper, a soft temptress--no. He needed to kill her.   
The voice in his head whined against the thought. He didn't necessarily need to kill her, just… make his trap more foolproof. Make sure she couldn't pull such a stunt again. And yet, he knew it was futile. She was too clever for that.   
He heard a crash downstairs, the sound of something shattering. He froze, startled out of his thoughts. There was only silence. He stood quietly, peering out into the hall. He didn't hear anything; what was she up to? Something horrifying, no doubt. Thoughts of her attacking him with a broken bottle flashed across his mind.  
He crept down the stairs, stepping lightly. Not that he was afraid or anything; he just needed her to not know he was there quite yet. He stood in front of the door to the kitchen area, listening. He heard the quiet sound of crying coming from the other side. He stood there, unsure what to do.   
She was vulnerable now; he ought to charge in there, knock her over, remind her why she ought to fear him. And yet, every time he tried to picture it, it ended with his lips on her neck, her quiet tears subsiding under his touch, and--no. No.   
He heard her sigh, mournful and absolute, and the sound wrenched at him. And then there was the pacing of feet, getting further away until she closed the kitchen door behind her. He opened the door slowly.   
A dark stain covered the wall. He walked closer, examining it. There was a chip in the paper. He picked at it with his fingers, and some plaster fell away. He sighed. Was it not enough to destroy him, must she destroy his house as well? The door reopened and she entered, pausing when she saw him. She met his eyes, terrified, her face still red from crying. 

He just sighed, looking back to the damaged wall. “What the hell did you do?” She didn't answer, walking in quietly, placing a cup down on the table. He turned at the slight clink of the ceramic, his eyes grazing over her, trying to figure her out. She stood awkwardly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear with her nervous fingers. He watched her, disgruntled.   
“You don't expect me to fall for that, do you? Poison? You think you can kill me that easily? Now I'm just offended.”   
She looked down at the cup before her, confused.  
“I'm… it's not poison. It's not even yours.”   
He looked somewhat miffed, “What, so you think you can just waltz in after trying to kill me and I won't notice?”  
She was exhausted, so horribly exhausted. “I mean, you can have it if you want, but there's sugar in it.”   
He glared at her, “What's that supposed to mean?”   
“You don't like sugar.” She stared at him blankly.   
“Oh, of course, I see, only thinking of yourself, as always.”   
“Do you want me to get you a damn cup of coffee?”   
He scoffed, “And poison me?”   
She threw up her hands, “I don't know what you want!” 

What he wanted was to pin her against the wall, listen to her surrender with his teeth at her throat, hear her regret her decision and then decide to put her talents to a good use, like killing the damn people she was supposed to kill.   
What he did was stride closer, pinching her face between her fingers and leering down uncomfortably close.   
“I want you to learn not to underestimate me. Evidently you've forgotten that I am more than capable of making you wish I had killed you.” He dropped her face roughly, stalking out the door, feeling his fingers buzz where he had touched her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for your lovely comments, messages, and art! I cannot possibly describe how much they all mean to me!   
> I'm SUPER excited about some of the stuff I have planned and coming up, so hang in! 
> 
> Cheers


	13. Chapter 13

Her fingers were pale specters beneath the serving plate they balanced against as she desperately tried to keep her knees from shaking. Cooking was a difficult task to accomplish when one doesn’t have any knives at their disposal, but she was more horrified at the prospect of what would happen if dinner failed to appear. The troop was yelling as she carried the large platter in, excitable and drunk, to say the least. She placed it lightly on the table, turning to head back to her reclusive kitchen sanctuary. The man with no pinkies grabbed her arm, catching her by surprise. When he smiled, she realized he was missing one of his canine teeth as well.   
“What’s the hurry? Come, sit!”  
“Oh, I’m fine, I have-” He shoved her down into the nearest seat, her knees smacking against one another painfully upon impact. She felt her face flush, her nerves firing quick panic signals across her body. Olaf didn’t look at her, despite her very sudden appearance in the seat beside him. She lifted the man’s hand from her arm. “Yes, thank you, but I really-”  
“What’s the rush?”   
“No rush, I just-”  
“Don’t be rude, Violet. Sit.” Olaf’s voice was low and coarse, sending fearful shivers across her spine. She didn’t make eye contact with him, still terrified. She couldn’t move now, unless she wanted to start something terrible. The man removed his hand from her arm, turning back to the conversation he had previously been in. She clutched at the glass of mystery liquor that had been slid to her, her knuckles white against the glass, the tension hurting the still tender skin of her hand. He took a drink from his glass, slouched far back in his chair. 

“Don’t act so stiff, it’s unbecoming.” She didn’t look at him, staring into her glass as if it was an oracle of sorts. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “My my, are you actually afraid?” He tucked a section of hair behind her ear. She pulled away from his touch, still staring down. He laughed, pausing to take out a knife from his pocket, playing with it. Her jaw tightened but she didn’t speak. Her quiet was disconcerting, but at the same time… 

“Drink, you’ll make them suspicious.” She waited a moment, not eager to follow his commands, but eventually raised the glass to her lips. The liquor stung in her mouth and burned on the way down. She swallowed again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so tame.” Her head snapped to him, her eyes burning with a sharp chill. He smiled.   
“You’re an absolute bastard.”  
“Keep your voice down, Darling.”  
“Or else?”  
“Or else…”   
She stiffened at the cold feeling of the knife trailing lightly against the side of her knee. She tightened her grip on the glass, fortified in her hatred.  
“Or else what? You’ll stab me in the thigh? Doesn’t seem much your style.” Still, there was a slight hitch in her breath as he pivoted the blade against her, pushing up the hem of her dress. She moved away indignantly. He caught her arm, holding her in place.  
“Darling, everything I do is with style.” He hissed the words between his teeth quietly. She pulled her arm from his grip, trying her best not to shake. “Don’t you think it’s in your interest to behave? Do you ever think about the consequences of your actions?”  
“Do you?”  
“Please. Actions don’t have consequences when you’re smart enough.”  
“Then what’s your excuse?” She breathed in sharply as the tip of the knife pricked her. He smiled slightly, obviously pleased.  
“Do you really think you're in a position for such talk?” The edge danced against her skin lazily, trailing up and down her leg.   
She looked away, swallowing the visceral reaction that threatened to bubble up and out at any moment. She felt ridiculously like a bug caught beneath a glass, willing to do anything if he would only stop looking at her. She fought the urge to shut her eyes. His voice rose from his chest like a purr.   
“There's no need to act quite so agitated, Dearest.”  
“Isn’t there?”

“What, is the venerable Violet really so easy to scare? Are you telling me this is all it takes?” He poked the tip of the blade into her leg again. She clenched her jaw.  
“I'm not afraid of you.”  
“Oh, of course not, you're not afraid of anything, are you?” The flush of her cheeks was absolutely delectable. She fought to maintain eye contact, obviously terrified. Good. Perhaps he could get it all back in order yet. He moved closer to her, lightly scratching the edge of the knife against her as he stood before tucking it back into his pocket. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

She closed her eyes, wishing herself far away, far far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all: We want more NSFW and kind interactions   
> Me: Got it, more angst coming up, with a side of knife-play. 
> 
> Okay but also, I've been reading over my work and I want to clarify something--I know I use a lot of words to describe Violet as super pale for her skin tone (whatever you may imagine that to be)  
> and thin, and then also describe her as beautiful, so I just wanted to make sure that y'all know that I am 100% trying to portray her as physically unhealthy, and am in no way implying that it is a healthy attraction. 
> 
> I'm having a TON of fun exploring their dynamic in this book, it feels a lot more honest to me, but with that comes a lot of horrific unhealthiness. Something about having her hatred be so visceral and palpable is exciting to me as an author, so. Enjoy. 
> 
> Cheers


	14. Chapter 14

He seemed almost afraid of her at times, equally as unwilling as she was to have their two paths cross, but at others times he was all harsh word, looming presence, over-her-shoulder lurking; it was tiring to say the least. She made it a point to wake up before him and go to bed after him. She did not want to be asleep while he was going about the house. She had learned well enough what came of underestimating him. The payoff, of course, was that she was perpetually tired. She hadn't worked this hard in years, or really, ever. 

Her cold feet touched down on the ground as she rubbed her sleeplessness from her eyes. Morning seemed to come earlier and earlier now. She wrapped her arms about herself, walking back to her small room. He hadn't taken that away from her yet, at least not in a direct sense. She hardly had the time to spend any fraction of her days in leisure. She pulled her night dress over her head, shivering in the cold. She regarded herself in the mirror for just the moment it took for her eyes to glance over her reflection. She didn't care to look at herself for too long recently; she hardly recognized her own face, pale and framed by her now jaggedly short hair. It was still long enough that it could be pushed back with a ribbon, but it would be a while yet before she could braid it again. She sighed, pulling her dress on over her head.   
Tiredly, she made her way into the kitchen, putting the water on to boil.  
This was the only time of day she had that was hers; the only time when she was able to be quiet and alone. She leaned against the counter, staring out the window. Winter had crept in at some point, leaving all the colors muted and the sky a permanent sort of washed-out blue that looked like a sheet of dark canvas left out to dry. She didn't mind all the grey, though she did miss the reprieve of the outdoors. Open sky has a way of making those who live in the city both uneasy and at peace. She was already uneasy, now she just longed for peace.   
She poured a cup for herself, savoring the warmth against her hands. Her favorite thing about this sort of quiet was that it wasn't the kind that made her feel lonely. When he stalked the halls, vacillating between ignoring and tormenting her, it left her feeling so desperately alone. It wasn't that she wanted his friendship, but he was all that she had.  
That wasn't entirely true, he wasn't all that she had, but after spending so long orbiting one another, it felt so emptily strange to be without him. Not that she cared. She had tried to kill him, after all. She hated him. Obviously she was fine with living without him. That didn't make it any easier though. She took a long sip of her coffee.  
It was astonishing how easy it had been to fold back into her old patterns. It was as if the past year had been wiped clean. Although she was worse off than when she had began. How could she have been so stupid?   
She couldn't leave, though. Not again. She wouldn't do that to her siblings. She had no recourse left, having thrown away her only chance at freedom along with everything that had made her life tolerable in one fell swoop. He was dissolving her slowly, defeating her in the most agonizing way possible.   
No- she wouldn't let him consume the last bits of her life that he didn't have. She wouldn't think about him for now. She settled herself in her resolution, and then taking the pot up lightly, poured a second cup to set in his place before he came down. 

If he didn't know she lived there, he would think the house was haunted. Every morning, like clockwork, he would come downstairs to a still steaming cup of coffee. The floors would be swept, the table clean, all evidence of any sort of festivities the night before vanished. He'd go to do his reading (he always found this part of the planning dreadfully tedious) only to find his papers slightly jostled, just a bit out of place. He'd go to get his wine and the bottles would be rearranged so that he (presumably) wouldn't notice the occasional missing one. If there was a ghost in his house, it had developed quite the penchant for drinking when he wasn't around. He didn't care too much; drunk specters are easier to keep under control, and besides, why should it worry him? There was no need for it to worry him. He wasn't bothered at all.   
What did bother him was the secretive nature of it all. Although he knew himself to be an intimidating man, he hardly believed she could be afraid of him, and so she must have an ulterior motive for hiding. But what?  
He wished it had been anyone but her. Of course it had to be the clever one who planned to kill him. It couldn’t have been one of the duller lackeys, no, it had to be the smart, pretty one. There was no way she would be content to just admit defeat and live in his house for the rest of her life.   
He hated her. He hated her so much. Every time he saw her it burned within him, creating a great desire to grab her, hold her tightly, have her explain and apologize and cry. That was hatred, right? He wouldn't forgive her though. He kept her needlessly busy at difficult tasks that he chose arbitrarily. He couldn't see her, couldn't look at her without the betrayal in his chest bubbling over and expanding across him, or even worse, feeling a great desire to kiss her, let his fingers wander across her skin, teach her why she ought to revere him. He had simultaneously underestimated and overestimated her, and now he was paying the price. How could she have done this?  
Quite frankly, he was surprised she hadn't tried to escape yet. No doubt she stayed for those horrible siblings. She was misguided if she thought he owed her any favors still. Yet, it was a convenient trap to keep her close until he decided what he was going to do with her.   
He stared out the window at the withered and dead plants of her garden. He could always wait until the dead of winter and then kick her out, let her freeze to death. But no, that wasn't satisfying enough. He needed her to burn, burn as he did, burn as the house had, let all of this come crumbling down about her. He needed to be smoke in her lungs, ash in her blood. He needed her to feel his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep sending me messages and art and songs and everything and anything! Sorry for putting y'all through pain! I'm not all that sorry but the sentiment is there!
> 
> Cheers


	15. Chapter 15

They were up to something, she knew they were. He was doing his damndest to keep her in the dark, sending her off on trivial distractible missions just so that she wouldn't overhear them talk. The one thing that she had going for her now was that the troop was making it harder for him to dismiss her. They liked her; they had accepted her into their group. She didn't know if that was necessarily a good thing, but it was beneficial at the moment, so she didn't think too hard on it. He would pause whenever she walked in, revert to words he knew she wouldn't understand, restack the papers so that she couldn't see them, but he couldn't keep her out. She took advantage of every moment she was given, vying for bits at a time.  
She carried in a new bottle of wine right as someone mentioned something about a “safe place.”   
“I thought the Quagmires’ mansion was the safe place? Wasn't that the point?”  
They all looked at her. Olaf cocked his eyebrow.  
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”   
“Is a new “safe place” just re-designated every time they lose one?” She poured the bottle over the empty glasses.  
“Like I said, I wouldn't expect you to understand.” She leaned over his shoulder, refilling his glass. He stiffened at her proximity.   
“Okay, well, it sounds somewhat futile to me if that's the case, but I suppose you would know best.”  
He nodded, waving her off with the back of his hand, “Now, if you wouldn't mind-”  
She perched herself on the arm of his chair, reaching forward, pointing.   
“What's this, inventory?”  
He moved the paper out of her reach, “You're messing with things you don't understand, now get back to the dishes.”  
“Well, how can I learn if you don't teach me? Am  
I supposed to learn from someone else, someone who isn't the best?”   
He paused, bracing his form, looking out over his henchmen quietly, “If you'll excuse us a moment.”   
He gripped her tight by the upper arm, pulling her back into the kitchen. As the door shut behind him, he turned, backing her into a wall.

“And what, exactly, do you think you are doing-”  
“I’m just trying to help-”  
“because it seems like you were trying to make a fool of me. Is that what you want?”  
She looked up at him, putting on a convincing enough act of innocence, but it was only an act, he reminded himself, “You're the one who made a scene, I just wanted to learn-”  
“So that what? So that you could turn us over to your precious little volunteers?” The hatred dripped from his voice like lye.  
She shoved out of his grip, “I've already told you, I’m not working with them, I know nothing about them.”  
“Oh really? Well that's a relief, here I was thinking that I couldn't trust you.”   
“All I want is information-”  
“Yes yes, only information, just information. Do you know how many people die over information every hour? Hell, you've already tried to kill once for it,” she clenched her jaw at his words, “so why not drop the act and just admit that you're here for nefarious reasons, and nefarious reasons alone?”  
“As opposed to your honorable reasons?”  
“I'm honest with my intentions, I say exactly what I mean. You're the one going through layers and layers of cross-talk.”   
“I wasn't trying-”  
“Just decided to cozy on up to me? What was the plan? You think you can slink into my chair, then my bed, then grab the knife from my back to stab me again?”   
“Wh- it wasn't that deep, I didn't mean anything by it-”  
“Don't rely on your past as a convenient bed-warmer to keep you safe. You mean nothing, do you understand that? You have nothing.”

She looked away, her face contorted in anger but she bit her words back. The only things she wanted to say could only end in homicide, and she wasn't liking her odds of being on the winning end. He snapped her face back towards him.  
“I said, do you understand?”  
“Yes.” She pushed out of his touch roughly.   
“Good, because from the look of it, you have a fair amount of work to attend to.”   
He left the room. She leaned back against the wall, slowly sliding her way down, until she was tucking her arms over her knees, braced on the cold floor, trying her best to make sure they wouldn't hear her cry.

“Isn't there some truth to what she was saying, though? How else is she going to learn?”   
Olaf coldly stared down the man who had dared to speak.   
“Do you presume to know my wife or the business better than I?”  
He shifted uncomfortably, “No, of course not,”  
“Then you'd best leave it to me.” He took a deep drink, enjoying the loud sound that clattered when he brought the glass down harshly on the table. “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to business.”   
“Sure, sure. Although… don't you think it is kind of… futile? Won't another just pop up?”  
“You're a goddamn idiot, do you know that? Of course it would be futile if we followed whatever it is I'm assuming you believe the plan to be. Have you ever known me to be anything but meticulous in what we do?” They muttered to one another, no one daring to say anything directly. He elected to ignore their impudence. “This isn't just any other heist- we have this now,” he held the papers up in his hand, “this is finally the end, and so we cannot lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my Heathens!
> 
> I am literally incapable of expressing just how in love I am with every bit of art y'all are sending my way. Seriously, y'all are too good to me, and I am obsessed with every bit of it. (If you haven't gotten over to the blog yet- you absolutely have to. Ourlittlesecretokay on Tumblr).
> 
> Similarly, thank you for the messages, comments, indiscernible strings of letters, virtual curses, the whole gambit. It's a learning process, so I'm always glad to find out what's effective, and regretfully, I can usually measure the story's effectfullness by your misery. So, thanks, keep up the good work
> 
> Cheers


	16. Chapter 16

Her heart was in a constant thrumming pain. She didn't know whether it was guilt or regret, but it created a poison sorrow that infiltrated her system. She was so tired, so very very tired. All she wanted to do was rest. However, the moment she completed a task, he would reappear, set her at something new. She briefly considered attempting to kill him again, but he was so paranoid now, even more so that he used to be, that the task seemed impossible. Besides, the last attempt had gone so poorly, that even if she had managed to create an absolutely foolproof plan, there was no way she was willing to risk her siblings’ lives. It wasn't fair to them.   
She continued scrubbing at the tiles, lost in thought. She was almost finished--no doubt he would reappear soon, giving her something new to do. She hadn’t chopped wood in a day, that would probably be it. It wouldn’t be so bad if they had a wood-burning stove or at least used it for the fireplace, but he kept the house deathly cold, willing to sink the ship so long as he killed the captain. 

Her infernal humming grated against his skull. She was taunting him, acting as though she didn't care what he did to her. It maddened him. No matter what he set her to, she would begin humming some damn song, showing off just how little she cared. She was getting in his head, constantly there, constantly gloating. He felt such a temptation to kill her, but never seriously considered the matter, relegating it to burning, fleeting thoughts.   
She stopped humming.   
She must have finished whatever he had set her at last, he thought bitterly. She was up to something. She must have some plan in motion. She was going to kill him. He stood quickly from the kitchen table, but was interrupted by a fit of dizziness. He braced himself against the wall, trying to balance. That was happening more often lately. He needed to find out what her plan was, to stop it before it came to fruition. 

She walked into the room, wiping her hands on a rag, but startled when she saw he was there.   
“Oh, sorry, I thought you had left already.” She turned to walk out the door but he came up behind her and caught her by the back of her dress, gripping the neckline, causing her to lurch backward awkwardly.   
“Shame you had to cut your hair--that would have been so much easier to do with a braid.”   
She twisted out of his grip indignantly, turning to face him, “What do you want?”   
“What are you up to?”  
She looked at him, confused, “Cleaning, mostly.”  
“No, what are you planning?”  
“To clean the kitchen. What's going on?”  
“Did you really think I wouldn't notice you sneaking around, cozying up to my men? I know you, I know when you're up to something. What are you doing?”   
She stared at him, a portrait of confusion. He looked paler than he ought to.   
“Are you sick?”  
“Try not to sound so hopeful.” He snarled.   
She held up her hands in surrender, “I wasn't- look, I’ll just leave you to whatever this is, okay? Sorry to have bothered you.” She tried to leave again, but he gripped her tightly by her upper arm.   
“You've poisoned me.” His voice was a whisper.  
She shoved his hand off roughly.  
“If I was going to poison you, I’d have already done it.”  
“Not unless you were trying to trick me.”  
“Trick you--into what?”  
“Into not suspecting you of poisoning me.”  
“So I would wait to poison you… so that I could poison you?”  
He paused, going over the calculations in his head, “Yes. I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve managed somehow. It would have happened sooner, but I’ve been pouring out your poison ‘coffee’ every morning.” His voice had a triumphant tone.  
She glanced over him, sizing him up.   
“Have you gone to a doctor yet?”  
He scoffed, “I don't go to doctors.”  
“Alright, well, if you want to drop dead that's your prerogative, I guess. Far be it from me to stop you.”   
She turned to leave but her grabbed her a third time, by her wrist.  
“This was your plan. You wanted me to not go to the doctor because you knew if I did, I wouldn't die.”   
She stared at him, quietly regarding him. His eyes were sharp, accusatory. She slipped her wrist out of his grip cautiously.   
“Yes… that's it exactly. You've figured it out.”  
He smirked, letting out a triumphant laugh.   
“You can't fool me, orphan. I've outsmarted you again.” She figured he probably had about five minutes before he keeled over. She nodded softly.   
He turned to leave, bracing himself against the wall. “Well I've foiled your plans again. I don't plan on dying for a long time.” His words were a snarl. She watched him, concerned.   
“Are… are you planning on driving?”  
“What? Are you worried for my safety?” His tone was saturated with sarcasm.  
“More so for the other drivers.”   
He glared at her, “Well I can't have you drive me. You'll crash the car.”  
“So… you believe… that I've poisoned you… in order to dissuade you from going to the doctor… so that I can get in the car with you… and crash it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Wouldn't I also die in that scenario?”  
He paused, thinking it over. She sighed, walking up beside him.  
“Right. If you're going to die, it's not going to be because of… whatever this is.” And it certainly wasn't going to be before he explained those papers to her, she added in her head. He scoffed, smirking.  
“I've tricked you again, orphan. You're undoing your own plot.”  
He leaned heavily upon her shoulder, pretending that he was holding her captive instead of using her as a crutch. She didn't respond to his jab. He may be irritating, but he was the only chance she had at deciphering those papers. Without them, this really would all be for nothing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Future Author(tm) -  
> For all of yall reading this as a finished work: This is a mandatory rest stop! Right before this chapter is a really good place to take a pause for sleep/water/homework/food/whatever it is that you've been putting off! Go. The story will wait for you right here. 
> 
> Cheers!

“Your husband is suffering from a severe concussion.”  
“That… doesn't surprise me really.”  
The doctor had a furrowed brow, and at her response he looked up, confused.  
“How long ago was he injured?”  
She shrugged, “Ten days? Maybe more?”  
“And he didn't come in earlier, because?”  
“He is a very obstinate man.”  
He looked back at his chart, obviously perplexed.  
“Well you're both lucky it didn't trigger a more serious response. The paranoia should subsist eventually, provided he follows his treatment plan. I've already told him, but I'm giving you a written copy of the instructions to bring home in case his memory gets fuzzy. It's a basic, typical rest treatment, but it should still be strictly followed.”  
She glanced over the paper.  
“You're prescribing him pain medication?”  
“Yes, in addition to the relaxation plan. Why, is there something that's concerning you?”  
“How do these pills mix with alcohol?”  
The doctor blinked at her, somewhat taken aback.  
“Ma’am, your husband is suffering brain trauma--drinking is the last thing he should be doing.”  
“But theoretically… would he die?”  
He sighed, running his hand through his hair. He looked too kempt for a doctor.  
“I don't think a glass of wine at dinner once a week would necessarily kill him, but I advise highly against it.”  
“Anything more than a glass and he would die though?”  
“Ma’am are you in trouble? If you or your husband require addiction counseling services, I can provide you with the resources-”  
“No no no.” She waved the words away. “It's fine, we… have… an anniversary coming up. I got a bottle of his favorite wine to celebrate.”  
He frowned again.  
“I wouldn't recommend it, but no, it would not kill him so long as he continues on a regular diet and takes no more than the prescribed amount.”  
“Great. Thanks” she whispered as he turned and left the hall. She walked back into the room. 

He turned to face her as she entered.  
“What did he tell you?”  
“If you drink any alcohol you will die.”  
He waved her words off with his hand, “Anything else?”  
“No. He did give me a copy of things for you to stay away from and your prescription information, but that's it.”  
He was disappointed. He had really hoped the doctor would give her his prescription to “go to hell” like he had ordered him.  
“Fine, whatever. We’re leaving. Let's go.”  
“You- It doesn't work like that. We have to check out first.”  
“Or what? They'll stop me?”  
“Yes.”  
He scoffed, “They couldn't if they tried.”  
She looked around tiredly, “Alright then, you stay here, and I'll go fill out some paperwork, as if you're not a grown man capable of heinous crime, let alone filling out your own goddamn forms.”  
He snarled. “You watch your tone.”  
“Or what? You'll kill me?”  
“You say it as if it isn't a possibility.”  
“Alright. Have fun dealing with police and angry receptionists when there is a very clear trail of you killing me in lieu of paying your bill.”  
“I'll kill you after we leave.”  
“Brilliant. Absolutely perfect. In that case can we please go to the front so we can leave and go back to not speaking to one another?”  
“Lead the way, Dearest.” His voice dripped with honeyed arsenic. 

Driving in the car with him was strange. It almost felt like she had a semblance of control in their relationship. Every time they passed a tree or telephone poll she had to talk herself out of crashing into it. He seemed to notice this, occasionally eyeing her warily. His pointed glare sat heavily on her chest, a weighted irritant.  
“Yes?” She was unable to keep her annoyance from her tone. He looked away, not saying anything. She almost preferred when he spoke to her, as cruel as he could be. At least then he let her feel like a person, albeit a person he hated.  
Her own hatred stuck to the insides of her ribs, tormenting her like a lump in her throat, catching on everything she meant to say. He was just lucky it was early enough in the morning that she was sober to drive. Who could blame her if she made a slight mistake while drunk, pulling the wheel just a bit too sharply, taking a turn too early…  
She wouldn't, of course. Her siblings needed her. She hadn't heard from them in just over a week now. The wait was a sharp edge in her lungs. It was probably fine. It was fine, probably. Some days the postal service was slower than others. She couldn't shake the nervousness though. 

If she gripped the wheel any tighter it was going to break in her hands. He looked away, unamused. She was up to something. There was no reason for her to give a damn about his injury other than the fact that it hadn't been serious enough to kill him.  
He was glad she was so small. Any larger and she might have done him in. He didn't like having her out of the house; she was too volatile, too uncontrollable.  
He couldn't very well keep her on a leash, so he had to settle for gripping her by the back of the neck, hard, whenever they had to do anything. He liked the way she bent under his touch. Even if she didn't fear him, she at least respected that he was stronger than her, and was afraid of him in that respect. The thought made him feel somewhat sick. He wouldn't hurt her, of course, but she didn't know that. He wasn't above throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off, but hurting her? No, he wouldn't do that.  
The landscape passed slowly outside the window. He wanted to be out of the car. It felt so strange to be in such close proximity and not speaking to her, not touching her. He looked at her out of his periphery. Her skirt was rumpled, and the hem sat a bit higher on her thigh than was intended. He shifted, looking away. He didn't know what her plan was, but he wasn't putting anything above her. Anything was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all: We want something less sad  
> Me, hammering away at the angst: Here, I made more sadness 
> 
> A shoutout today to cryoboyfriends who has made it their mission to send me so much fanart that I cry 
> 
> Cheers


	18. Chapter 18

She straightened up from where she knelt on the floor, stretching her arms for a moment and yawning.  
“Oh I'm sorry, is this boring you?” Of course he had to walk in then. She turned around to look at him, not bothering to hide the malice in her eyes.   
“I've almost finished, but the floor is still wet.” He glanced down at the glistening floor. She had been scrubbing at it with a brush for the better part of an hour. He looked back up at her, his face stiff, and then oh-so-slowly upturned the glass of wine in his hand and walked away.   
A week ago she would have cried, but at this point, his antics had become so boring. He was decreasing in creativity. She sighed, lifting the bucket of suds beside her, treading across her nice clean floor to undo his handiwork. 

He didn't know what he hoped to achieve by pushing her so hard. Remorse? Her respect? In any case, it kept her out of his sight, generally. He knew he couldn't treat her too harshly, lest she seek to rectify her previous errors, but he still hadn't decided on what to make of his situation. She knew too much to be allowed to escape. Truly, if not for the unspoken acknowledgment of her family's mortality, he doubted that she would still be here.   
He seethed whenever he saw her, his chest tightening in a panging sense of… hatred? Disgust? Anger? In any case, it poisoned his days, sending him spinning down into a dark turret of frustration whenever he looked at her. How could she be so nonchalant, so unaffected? If he didn't know better, he'd say he was in mourning, preemptively celebrating her death, he supposed. 

He hadn't taken her books from her, for that much she was grateful. Not that she had time to read anymore, but even just holding a book can be a comfort at times. She needed to escape, now more than ever. Not that she would make a literal attempt. She had gambled her siblings lives enough as it was; she wasn't willing to do it again.   
She closed her eyes, enjoying the quiet of the hall. She had finished cleaning the floor for now, but no doubt he would be along in a moment to give her another ridiculous task to fulfil. She decided to take advantage of the moment to begin cleaning the dishes she had been unable to finish from the previous night. His men were coming over again, and she'd need the dishes ready if she were to cook. Standing shakily, she made her way into the kitchen.   
The sky outside the window was grey, heavy with winter. She hoped it wouldn't become much colder; if the temperature dropped any lower she might freeze, what with him still refusing to warm the house at night. Slowly, methodically, she began wiping down the plates, enjoying her moment with the warm water, even if was dirty and the task was tiring. There's something intrinsically rewarding about washing dishes, and she put all of her effort into trying to get them clean. She looked back out the window. All of the trees were leafless, bare skeletal forms of their former selves. She hoped he wouldn't take her garden from her.   
She began to hum softly, enjoying the quiet of her work. 

She was humming again. That ought to be a sign that it was about time for him to give her something new to do, and yet. He sat in his chair, massaging his eyes. He was so tired. It was exhausting, skirting around her like this, but what choice did she give him? He had to break her eventually, or sacrifice ever having peace of mind again. He hadn't been able to sleep recently, though he was more tired than ever. He chalked it up to anxiety; how silly that she was able to make him act this way. His sleeplessness was beginning to affect him, keeping him from working at his usual level of excellence. No matter. He would break her soon. He pushed his way up, bracing his weight against the chair, making his way into the kitchen.   
He paused in the doorway, hesitant. She looked so small, overwhelmed by the surrounding mess. She looked over her shoulder at him, her hum dying in her mouth. His gut clenched. 

“I'm almost finished with the dinner, it'll be done soon.”   
He walked in, not saying anything. She turned back to her work, hoping he wouldn't notice the slight sway to her movements. She kept her head down, trying to keep him from seeing the liquored red of her face. He stood beside her, watching her. His silence made her nervous. Gently, he placed his hand on her, turning him towards himself. Her stomach turned over at the touch. He didn't touch her anymore except to grip her by the back of the neck, steering her when he needed. She froze, mixed between her fear and the relief of human contact, of his contact. She clenched her jaw.   
He lifted a hand, brushing the hair from her temple, and then slowly, turned her face to the side, looking at her now faded bruise carefully. She didn't move, hardly daring to breathe.   
“You should sleep, you'll faint dead away.”   
She turned back to face him. His eyes looked empty, hollow. It was even more unnerving than the gesture in his words. She swallowed hard, unsure whether it would be worse to leave the troop dinner-less, or to disobey his words.   
“I'm almost finished, I’d much rather get it all done.”   
He lowered his hand slowly, curling his fingers in towards his palm.   
“Suit yourself.”   
He turned on his heel, swiftly leaving the room, and her, behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ugly Man is Sad 
> 
> Cheers


	19. Chapter 19

What foolish action, what cowardice. His thoughts burned within him as he stalked out of the room. What kind of man approaches his attempted murderer and offers them a nap? He felt shameful with guilt.   
So many days later, and he still had yet to break the habit of unfortunately affectionate regard towards her. Why did it have to be him, he thought bitterly. Had she tried to kill anyone else, he could have celebrated alongside her, perhaps even have helped her do it correctly.   
He wasn't angry, persay. It had more to do with the fact that he had no idea what to do with her now. He was supposed to be in control, and she had upset that balance. Although, perhaps he ought to apologize for slapping her- no, he steeled himself again. He would do no such thing, not until she apologized for ruining everything. He felt like a walking graveyard, bemoaning everything that could have been. But it could have been so good. Why did she have to ruin it?  
He went back to his work, the sheets of paper spread across his desktop. He at least had that going for him; he had access to information she could never get without his intervention. The thought gladdened him. Although, her presence now made figuring the next part even more difficult. What could he do with a subordinate he didn't trust?

The postal truck had yet to come that day. She was beginning to get nervous. Why had Sunny and Klaus still not responded to her last letter? Did they not believe her? Even so, why would that keep them from responding? She looked back to her work, trying to steady her nerves. She was just being overly anxious, that was all. She was sure everything was fine. And yet, her twisted gut told her otherwise. She looked back to her work, concentrating on the vegetables beneath her fingers. He still insisted upon hiding her knives away. He had complimented her knife skills once. If worst came to worst, maybe she could--no. No, she couldn’t.   
She glanced out the window just as the postal truck drove by, not stopping at their house. She felt sick.   
It had been almost a month since she'd received a letter. She had sent a great many off, all with no reply. There was no reason for them to ignore her in such a way- unless…  
She dropped the carrot in her hands, rushing out of the kitchen. She found him exactly where she expected, in the parlor, surrounded by those infernal papers. He looked up, a bored expression on her face as she skidded in.   
“Yes?”  
“You're not supposed to be reading- nevermind, what have you done to Sunny and Klaus?”   
He blinked slowly, regarding her, “Pardon?”  
“Sunny and Klaus, what have you done to them?”   
“Your brat siblings? Nothing.” He glanced down before looking up again swiftly, holding a finger out in warning, “That's not to say that I won't, though.”   
“Please,” she held her hands out, “I don't have time to play your games. Where are they?”   
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “So you don't have time for games now? That's funny, here I thought you were rather fond of them.” She felt nauseous at his casual tone. “At any rate,” he brushed her worries aside with a flick of his hand, going back to his reading, “I’d assume they're tucked in between some books somewhere. What makes you think I know what's happened to them?”   
“They haven't replied to my letters in days. If you've done something, please, just tell me.”  
He cocked his eyebrow, suddenly interested. “How many days?”   
She counted quickly in her head.   
“At least twenty.”  
He paused, thinking, a ghost of a laugh parting his lips. She burned, infuriated with his nonchalance.   
“What's so funny? What have you done?”   
He shook his head, “I haven't done anything, but I think your friends that you hold so near and dear might not be so innocent.”   
Her head reeled, “What are you talking about?”  
He shrugged teasingly, “This is what happens when you let your enemies escape. You should have been less worried about me and more worried about actually finishing your job.”   
“Are you trying to tell me the Quagmires took my siblings?” She didn't believe him.   
“If not them, then some of their associates.”   
“And why should I believe a word you say?”  
“You’re the one who came to me for answers. Besides, I'm not the dishonest one in this relationship. It's hardly worth getting upset about anyway. If they're still anything like you, it's not much of a loss.”   
There was a crack as she struck him, hard, across the face. They both froze, unsure what had just transpired. She lowered her hand as he straightened his back, fixing his expression into one of cold indifference.   
“I suppose you consider us even now? An eye for an eye?”   
She clenched her jaw. He continued.  
“At any rate, it was a wasted action. I don't have your bookworm siblings, though how do you suppose that would have protected them if I did? Learn to think before you act.” He was right in that regard, at least. He stood, towering over her, leering down. “Now if I'm correct, there is still much work to be done, so unless-”  
“Oh, I don't care anymore! If you're going to kill me, just kill me know!”  
He stared down at her, somewhat taken aback, “Pardon?”  
“I can't stand these mind games--you keeping me on my toes, ever vigilant, always waiting for you to suddenly kill me!”  
“Is that what you think I'm doing?” His voice was cold.

“I don't know what you're doing, but if you're trying to torture me, it's working, so please,” there were tears in her eyes now, for the first time since that first day, “if you're going to kill me, then at least be honest about it.”  
“I'm not going to kill you.” He spat the words out angrily.  
“Why the hell not? You're already halfway there! What are you trying to do then? Teach me a lesson? Make me apologize? What is the purpose in all of this?”  
He leaned in close, too close, inches from her face. Her breath trembled.  
“Don’t meddle in things that you don’t understand.”  
He glared down at her, and then turning on a sharp pivot, left the room. She stood alone, silent, feeling a dark sorrow spreading across her ribs and along her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it was high time she got to hit him. Writing that felt good.
> 
> Cheers!


	20. Chapter 20

She lay in the couch in the dark quiet, feeling the night seep under her skin. She wondered if he was awake as well.   
She should sleep. She needed to sleep. She raised the bottle of liquor back to her lips. It was easier now; it became less painful each time. She sat up, folding her feet beneath her, grateful for the heat drunkenness spread across her bones. It was so cold, and even the wool of her socks did little to dispel the frozen air. She pulled the blanket tighter about herself. She should make some tea; that would help. And yet, she didn't have the energy to get up, to leave the couch. She didn’t have the energy to move. She needed to sleep.  
She couldn't remember the last time she had been able to read. It was too dark to try to read now without gaining his attention with the light. She stared out into the dark, feeling rather empty inside. She took another drink, and then closed the bottle, tucking it between the cushions of the couch. She should sleep. She needed to sleep.  
Instead, she stood, and found herself wandering towards the kitchen. She stumbled as she walked, leaning against the wall for balance. She hadn't realized she had drunk so much. She pushed the door open, her hand tight to the counter. She stood in the dark, staring out the window. She didn't even want tea anymore. Bracing herself against the cabinets, she managed to lift herself so that she was sitting on the counter beside the window. The glass radiated a sharp cold, and despite the chill already present in the air, she leaned her forehead against it, staring out into the night.   
It seemed so strange that the world could go on turning and existing, indifferent to the fact that everything in hers had stopped. She had failed. She had one job, and she had failed. She couldn't do anything right. No matter what side she came down on, good or evil, she was equally useless.   
The glass fogged a bit as warm tears slipped out. She raised her hand to her face, surprised to find herself crying. It was such a useless thing to do, and yet, she had no way to stop it.   
She stared out at the night, hating the wind for ruffling the trees so gently, hating that the world could be so quiet when everything inside her was chaos. She had never been so alone. The stairs creaked. She turned her head towards the closed doors, listening. Perhaps the house was just settling. But no, there was the definitive sound of footsteps. She was glad she hadn't slept; she didn't want to be asleep when he wasn't. She heard the door to the dining room open and shut again, and the sound of a chair being moved. She leaned her head back against the glass. She was trapped now, unless she wanted to face him. The branches of the trees swirled across her vision. She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. How had she drank so much? When she opened them again, things still seemed out of focus, like a picture that had had water spilled across it. She sighed, leaning back, balancing her weight on the wall. She could wait him out. She'd just need to stay very quiet. Of course, there was no telling how long he’d be there, and she was missing her blanket quite a lot. Using the back of her hand, she shoved the tears off her cheek. 

He stared at the papers in front of him, his face braced in his hands, trying to force the letters to stop moving. He wasn't even drunk. Her hitting him had definitely made it worse. As if it wasn't bad enough to give him a concussion, did she really had to go and hit a man with brain trauma? She was an absolute nightmare to deal with. And yet, he still couldn't quit the habit. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. Reading took so much effort, but what could he do, ask for help? He wasn't even sure everyone in his troop was literate, let alone able to be trusted with the wealth of information he had acquired. He looked back down at the list one more time before turning it over, leaning back in his chair.   
The door to the kitchen opened. He looked up, surprised to see Violet standing there, a glass in her hand. She held onto the edge of the table as she walked towards him, not making eye contact. Her face was red, it looked as if she had been crying. He didn't say anything, even when she placed the glass down, sliding it towards him.   
“You're not supposed to be reading.”  
He took the glass, running his finger along the brim, “I'm not supposed to be drinking either.”  
“I figured that one’s a losing battle.”  
He didn't reply, still not looking at her as he took a much-needed drink. She shifted her weight, teetering uncertainly. Was she drunk?  
She turned quietly to leave, her footsteps muffled by those ridiculously unsightly socks.   
“Wait, Violet-”  
She stopped, turning to meet his eyes, “Yes?”  
He lifted the top piece of paper, handing it to her, “Can you read this?”   
She paused before reaching out, taking it from him. In the instant where their fingers brushed, he felt just how shockingly cold hers were.  
She squinted, looking at the page, “It’s a list.”  
“I know it's a list--can you read it to me? Out loud?”

She hesitated, trying not to slur her words.  
“Sure, but it doesn't make any sense.”  
“I know, I know, it's okay.”  
“Alright, well. Heaven atonalism, disfluent bar, farrow hallo, alay village, leerily pistole, autumn rich, fleerings kenogenetic, truth germane, soaken atoned. And then there are two more at the bottom, written in in ink, alkalised bureau and analyse unburied.”  
He nodded slowly, sighing and bringing his head down to his hands, “Yes, well, that will be all.”  
She stood there, staring at him, unsure what it was that she should do, “Are you sure, do you need anything else?”  
“No, go sleep off whatever it is that you've gotten into.”   
She placed the paper down on the table lightly. She felt the urge to pull up a chair beside him as she had that one night so long ago, to confide in him that she was lonely and crying for no reason and every reason, that she was afraid and tired and lost. That as horrible as he was, that she missed having a teammate.

She reached out, touching his shoulder. He shoved her hand away irritatedly. She stood just a moment more before turning, leaving him behind. Her hands were so cold, and he could feel the fear radiating off of them. She had no idea what she was so deeply entrenched in, but at least she had the sense to be afraid of it. He took another drink from the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm suffering because I know what's gonna happen and y'all don't, so have a double update of sadness as an apology for lack of happiness? Does that work?  
> Please don't leave me.
> 
> Cheers


	21. Chapter 21

Her ribbon sat neatly in her hair, keeping it tied back, away from her face.   
She didn't speak, trying to slip back into the troop’s periphery. So much of her plan relied on her ability to be innocuous, unassuming. He didn't trust her, and she doubted he ever would again, but that didn't change the fact that she knew him better than anyone else. He was still a prideful man, subject to bouts of drawn-out bragging once drunk. Granted, getting him drunk took more work than it would for any other person, but it wasn't impossible. Of course, she had to be careful now to find a balance that would get him talkative without killing him. It would be worthless if he just straight up died now.  
His henchmen, the men in particular, kept trying to get her to sit down with them. She skirted away from their gestures, offering excuses and placating smiles. The women were less trusting of her, more watchful. She couldn't tell if they were truly more perceptive of her motives, or simply resented her for her assumed status as Olaf’s favorite. If only they knew. 

He deliberately avoided watching her. She was nothing to him; an underling, an expendable. At least she'd had sense enough to bring up the good liquor this time. She knew his taste, he had to give her that. As if on cue she reappeared, filling his glass. Good girl. She was quiet, more demure than usual. That concerned him somewhat. He watched her over the rim of his glass, taking a drink. 

He hadn't said a word to her all evening. She felt somewhat bad for having slapped him, but not bad enough to break the silence between them. He had deserved it. She watched him as he slid down in his seat, trying to hide his exhaustion and dismay. She refilled the sip he had taken. Reflexively, he reached out to stroke her arm before pulling his hand back as if she had burned him. She stared at him, turning away slowly.   
Had she really hurt him with her actions? Surely he was no stranger to deception. The thought nagged at her guiltily, an albatross hung about her neck. True, he had admitted to her- but that was nothing, that couldn't have been true, even if he had believed it to be. Regardless of his own intent, she felt a creeping sorrow linger against her forearm where he had brushed her with his fingertips. She didn't miss him, per say, she had just gotten used to his presence, and then had had the opportunity to get used to his… lack of presence. This was just confusion, it would work itself out. And yet, she couldn't help but wish he had let himself make contact, if even for that brief instant. It felt strange to be so disconnected. She thought back to the kitchen, when he had so lightly touched her face. The remembrance bubbled inside her. She continued with her work, cleaning away plates, trying to suppress the aching feeling in her belly. 

The more he drank the harder she became to ignore, brazenly prancing about, not content to stay in one place, but fixated on showing off and flirting with every single one of his men. She smiled at them, tittering a false laugh. He knew her smile, he knew her better than anyone, and he knew when she was faking a laugh. His men moved to accommodate her, but she just continued on her merry way, making a great show of herself. The heartless, faithless wretch. She wouldn't even look at him, wouldn't acknowledge him. He had almost stroked her arm, but pulled himself back at the last possible second. Old habits die hard.   
His heart suffered in a panging sort of anger within him. How dare she try to get in cozy with his men? Who did she think she was to disrupt his life in such a way? He scowled as she refilled his glass, turning to leave, no doubt off to flirt some more, her cheeks all blush and her voice all whispery and-  
“Violet!” She turned to look at him. He hesitated, unsure what he meant to say. Stop being such a flounce? He lifted his glass, gesturing tiredly. “Bring something else, I've gotten bored with this.”  
“Oh. Okay.” There was surprise in her voice, but she left the room dutifully, off to fetch more liquor. It was a shame, he thought as he swirled his glass. It really was good scotch. But thus are the sacrifices a great leader must make. He finished the rest of his drink.   
He didn't want to talk work tonight--just looking at the papers made his head hammer with pain. Tonight he'd just let them get drunk, let them think he was feeling complacent enough to celebrate.

She brought up a new bottle. Odd, she could have sworn he would have liked that last one, but no matter. She came back into the room, refilling his empty glass. He didn't say anything in way of thanks, didn't meet her eyes, didn't acknowledge her. That was hardly unusual. She felt sad nonetheless.   
She continued on her trajectory, trying to stay as out-of-the-way as possible, trying not to be seen. Every time she glanced over at him, he wasn't watching her anyway. With any luck she might actually succeed.  
The troop didn't leave until late. Infuriatingly enough, they had stayed off the topic of plans all night, squashing her opportunity to get him talking. She was exhausted by the time they left, having spent the evening watching his glass, but luckily she had thought ahead, cleaning up throughout the evening so that she was able catch him before he went to bed. He stood up from the table clumsily, leaning his weight against the chair. He was very, very drunk.  
“Here, let me help-” she offered her arm to him, but he shoved her off.  
“I don't need you.”   
“Okay, I never said you did, I just wanted to help-”  
“Did you?” His glare was cold, accusatory. She paused, looking away, hurt by his cruel gaze.   
“I'm sorry, I-”  
“Don't apologize, I hardly care.”   
She looked up at him, disbelievingly, “You don't care?”  
He shrugged angrily, “You can go to hell all you want, I don't give a damn.”   
He was angry with her, that much was obvious. She almost abandoned her plan, but she needed to know. 

“I suppose that's fair. I don't know why I ever thought I could trick you.”  
He scoffed. What a dumb girl. “You can't. You shame me by even thinking so.”  
She nodded softly, “You are far better with plans than I am. First with me, then my siblings-”  
“Again with the siblings!” He threw his hands up in the air. “Look, I don't have them, I don't want them, I don't know why they stopped talking to you other than the fact that I too hate talking to you.” He saw her face pale at that. That one had hurt. Good. “Once we get to them I'll be sure to get a handwritten explanation detailing how none of this was my fault, will that please you?”   
Her head snapped up, intrigued, “Get to them? What are you talking about? Do you know where they are?”  
“No.” He held out a warning finger towards her. “No, you do not get to creep in on my confidence like that. You're a filthy double crosser, you're, you're a volunteer.” He could hear the hurtful anger in his voice, but he couldn't stop. She gripped her arms to herself, pale. “You want to know what's happening?” She didn't move, didn't respond to his biting tone. “The people you let live? The people you chose? Chances are, they've scooped up your precious little family and are currently taking them far far away, and the next time you see them, they'll be trying to kill you. Don't worry about that last part though, they won't be successful if my experience is anything to speak by.”   
“Oh why the hell do you care so much? I can hardly be the first person to make an attempt on your life!” She matched his tone, yelling. “You said it yourself, I was your nice mantelpiece trophy, nothing more and nothing less, so what the hell do you care?!”  
“Because I tried to tell you I loved you, and you tried to murder me!”   
And then the word was in the the air, a leaden ball dropped ten stories, a crater bridging the space between their feet. There was a shift in the axis of their world, a sudden drop of the illusions they had been clinging to.

Neither of them spoke, frozen, shocked at the palpable weight of his words.   
She gripped her arms against herself tightly.   
“And that would change things, why?” Her tone was unfairly cold.  
“Because I wasn't lying. Although I do applaud your sense of distrust, this time it wasn't warranted.”   
“I know.” Her tone was softer, guiltier, more mournful.   
There was a break in the argument, a hollow pause.   
He blinked, “And you did it anyway?”   
She shook her head slowly, sorrowfully, “You cannot buy me with your own desire. I did what I had to, as best fitted me. It was never about you, if that makes it any better.”   
“So you just… didn't care?” There was offended disbelief in his voice.  
“I cared, just not as much as I cared about other things.”   
He looked away, not wanting her to see how her words hurt him.   
“Well, rest easy, I won't make the mistake again.” 

Her chest tightened, “I don't think one has so much say in it.”   
He glared back at her, his eyes piercing, “So now you care? Now that you've realized just how beneficial my fondness was, now it's time you try to slink back up, try to reclaim it? My Darling,” he strode towards her, tilting her chin up with his index finger, “I am not so pliable.”   
She pushed his hand away, but he caught her by the wrist. Neither said anything, tense, waiting to see who would break first. 

“You know, for a while I didn't think that I hated you. I didn't do it because I wanted to, I-” she clenched her jaw. She owed him no excuses. He smirked down at her, lowering himself so that they were on eye level.   
“Be sure to learn from my mistake, then.”  
His eyes pierced her painfully as he dropped her wrist. The room was silent.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, caught in her throat.   
He looked away, ignoring her.   
“I know things will never be the same, but,” she hesitated, measuring his response, “if there's something to be done, something that involves my family, I need to be in on it.”  
“And how the hell am I supposed to trust you?”  
“You can't.” She shook her head softly. “The same way I can't trust you.”   
“And why the sudden softness, the sudden change of heart?”   
She met his gaze, forcing herself not to tremble. “I know that you're my best shot at helping them. I've made my mistakes, but they're innocent. And I'm tired of all of this dodging about.” She gestured between them. “You're the best shot I have. And… I think we had a good thing going.”

It was a lie, but she suppressed her emotional response. She needed him back on her team. Or, more accurately, she needed to be back on his team.   
He scoffed. “And what exactly were you planning on doing about that once I was dead?” His words stung, but she couldn't hold them against him. He was right, after all. She looked away, not able to meet his eyes.

“Did you mean it when… Do you still…”   
He shook his head, “You taught me that lesson quite swiftly.” She didn't understand the plummeting of her heart, but it felt as if her bones were keening within her.   
“This was never supposed to happen. Any of this. I never wanted this.” 

She clutched at herself tightly, her eyes threatening to brim over with tears. His hand brushed the hair from the side of her face hesitantly. She lifted her fingers to cover his, clutching his palm to her cheek, desperate for kind touch. She was so lonely. 

All at once he knew he would forgive her, if he allowed himself. He was a foolish man, too sentimental for his own good. Not that he would ever tell her, he had learned the hard way that she must never know of his weaknesses. He lifted his other hand to her face. She looked up at him, all beauty and betrayal, and then he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips. She was his temptation, and she would be the death of him, sooner or later.


	22. Chapter 22

Her insides fluttered, her skin singed where he touched her. She gripped his hands, desperate to keep him from disappearing again. She had missed human contact so badly. True, the troop members were kind enough now, but it wasn't the same. He straightened up, disappointing her.   
“And one more thing.”   
She met his gaze, wondering what else he might need.   
“Stop flirting with my men.”   
She blinked slowly, trying to understand, “Excuse me?”   
“My troop; stop flirting with them.”   
“I'm not flirting with them--do you think I'm flirting with everyone I'm kind to?”   
“Regardless of what you're doing, I don't like it. Really, they could have you for all I cared if not for the fact that you are my wife. I can't have you dishonoring me in such a way.”   
“Oh, so you're taking me back now?”   
“You're acting treacherously irritating for a woman in your position.” But then there he was, against her lips again, his hands to her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his.

She gave over to his presence easily, almost gratefully. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, feeling her bend towards him. He pressed her against the table, trapping her between its edge and himself before moving his lips down her neck, across the line of her jaw, nipping at her skin a bit rougher than was strictly necessary. Her hands lifted to his shoulders, holding him, her voice a contented humming sound.   
He slid his hands along her sides, trailing his fingers down to the top of her hips. She clutched at him, trying to pull herself closer. Perhaps she wasn't lying, perhaps she really had missed him.   
He lifted her swiftly, unsteady on his feet. He had drank more than he realized. She gripped him tightly, realizing the same thing.   
“You should probably put me down, I-”   
“No talking, you'll ruin everything.” His voice was a gravelly groan as he carried her out of the room and over towards the stairs.   
By some miracle he made it upstairs with both of them unscathed. She practically sighed in relief when he passed through the doorframe, gently standing her upright before shoving her rather suddenly to the wall. He pressed his tongue back into her mouth, tilting her head up again to afford himself a better angle. She moved her hands to his shoulders, holding him as if to keep him from escaping.   
His lips danced around her sigh, and then he was moving back down, kissing along her jaw. With one fluid movement, he lifted her by the backs of her thighs, rocking himself against her. She still was so light, so...fragile. She gasped, tightening her grip about his shoulders. He smiled, pleased.

“There's a good girl.” His voice was all gravel, a hum against her skin. She didn't have a response. He nipped at her with his teeth, exhaling a mock sigh. “Poor little Violet.” She tightened the grip of her fingers. “Didn't realize just how deep the deep-end gets. Poor, lonely, little Violet.” His breath was hot against her skin. She shivered. “Forgot that when her husband died, there'd be nobody left to fuck her.”   
“I'm sure I could find someone.” Her voice was a biting whisper. He shook his head.   
“Not the way I do.”   
And then his tongue was back in her mouth, and he was carrying her the few strides over to the bed, placing her down roughly. He slid his hands up the skirt of her dress, relishing the contact of her skin. He had missed that. He pulled her dress over her head impatiently, moving his greedy lips over the newly exposed skin, savoring the way she tightened her grip on him when his bites pinched her.   
“Oh I'm sorry, does that hurt?” He nipped her again, sarcastic.  
“Fuck you.” Her voice was breathless, a bitter invitation.  
He hummed a contemplative sound against her skin, “So you've said before. And yet you still insist upon doing it yourself.” He straightened up for a quick moment, pulling off his own clothes messily.   
She scoffed. “You're right, how could I resist such charm?”   
He pressed himself back down upon her, holding her down, kissing her roughly, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”   
She arched her back into his touch, “I could say the same.”   
“You watch your goddamn mouth.”

He slid his knee between her thighs, pressing against her, causing her to moan beautifully, her fingers tightening across the back of his neck.   
He pushed her back down, pinning her between himself and the mattress, her warm delicate skin purpling delightfully under his care. She looked so fragile. He enjoyed ruining that.   
“Poor little Violet, such a good, innocent girl, would never do anything wrong.”   
She groaned, irritated with his antics. “Okay, okay, I get it.”   
He ground his erection against her hips, causing her to moan once more.  
“I don't think you do, but no matter. We’ll get there eventually.”   
“Please, just stop with the banter and just-”  
“Just what?” He leered over her, a glint in his eye. “Get on with the show? Hurry up and finish? I'm sorry, am I BORING you?”   
She groaned, covering her face. “Stop being so goddamn dramatic!”  
He scoffed again, pulling her hands away, pressing them to the bed. “Dramatic? I hardly think that's warranted.”   
“Alright, yes, fine, whatever.”  
“Well, someone's impatient.” He let go of her hands, sliding his fingers along her sides slowly, teasingly. “It sure would be a shame if I were to take my time.” He rocked himself against her again, pulling another moan from between her gritted teeth. “It's a good thing I have such great stamina.”   
“You can't be serious right now.”   
“Am I ever not? I am a patient man.” He drew circles on her bare skin with his finger.   
“What point are you trying to prove?”   
He shrugged, “Just trying to teach you a lesson, I suppose.”   
“About what?”  
He shrugged again. “Just want to torture you then, I guess. You seem to be suffering under the implication that we are here for you.”  
She paused, and then softly, she sat up, slowly removing what remained of her clothes; her slip, her undergarments, leaving herself luminescently bare. His breath caught in his throat.   
Oh, that's how he'd been fooled so easily. They always did say that the devil came in beautiful wrapping. Although, in this case it was all about the unwrapping; all the skin beneath those clothes.   
She touched the side of his face gently, pulling him into a kiss. She parted her lips ever so slightly, and by instinct he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, moving his hand to her back. She shifted closer to him. He had to remind himself to breathe, to not give into this treacherous succubus. Her lips moved to his neck, his erection pressed against the warm skin of her stomach.   
“Please?” The word was a whisper against his throat, and then he was pushing her down beneath himself, musical cries coming from her delicately parted lips.   
He ground himself against her, digging his fingers into her back.   
He growled into the crook of her neck, “Say it again.”  
“Please.”  
Her needing him was a beautiful sight, satisfying to say the least. He kissed roughly along her throat, trying to taste the need in her tone. Swiftly, he slid his stiff erection inside her. She arched into his presence, gasping deliciously, her hands lacing beneath his arms to hold him tight. He thrust into her, moaning his greedy pleasure against her still open lips. She groaned as he thrusted into her, giving over the lead to him, letting him set the pace. He slid his hands down to the sides of her hips, holding her still, building up a rhythm as he pounded against her, desperate to restake his territory. She was his, she belonged to him, she needed him.

“You're goddamn mine, do you understand?”   
She didn't respond, her gasps growing higher in pitch as he thrust into her more and more quickly. Her fingers tightened against his back. She was on the cusp of coming, her orgasm on the brim of spilling over. The sensation of his lips against her filled her, intoxicating her.  
Nothing had changed as to their situation, of that much she was certain. He was acting out of exhausted hate, not any sort of tenderness. The roughness of his actions confirmed that. And she oughtn’t care--she didn't care. All she had been after was some sort of contact, right? A dip back into his good graces. She didn't want his kindness, his desire. And yet she couldn't shake the mourning in her chest at its absence. His hands held her tight against him, but never tight enough, never close enough.   
“God damn it, Violet.”   
His words were heavy against her neck, and then all of a sudden everything clicked into place.

“Crap! Olaf!”   
Well shit. All these years and all it took was a murder attempt to get her to say his name. He pressed himself to her, his teeth pulling at her. Her breath was haggard, anxious, almost afraid. He laced his arm beneath her, holding her to his chest. She clung to him desperately, as if she were drowning. Though it was phenomenal, he couldn't help but be a little concerned. Old habits die hard.  
“You're mine, Violet. You're mine.”

He crashed against her, no doubt leaving at least a few bruises across her body. And yet, it still wasn’t enough. Guilt wrested within her chest, a sorrowful mix of pains. She opened her eyes, watching the ceiling as he moved across her, within her, physically staking his claim. He had won again. His hot breath darted across her as he explored the conquered territory of her body, enjoying the liberty with which she handed it over. His gasps quickened in pace as he finished, his breath scattered across her open lips. She was burning, consumed, terrified, only the feel of him against her keeping her grounded. She brought her hands to the sides of his face, holding his kiss to her lips, feeling absolutely destroyed. 

How cruel could she be? No matter; if she insisted upon his hatred, she could have it. His drunken thoughts reeled as he tried to catch his breath kissing her back. He shoved his tongue into her mouth, all lust and desire. Her legs tightened against his sides, trying to hold him against her. He pulled away, rolling off the the side. The last thing he needed was to suffer through her feigning care for him. If coldness was what she wanted, it was what she would get. He lay on his back beside her. She stared straight up, her eyes darting across the ceiling. He turned away from her, pulling the covers about himself. It felt unnecessarily cruel to kick her out of the room, but he refused to encourage her presence in any way. He would just have to ignore her, to let her think he didn't care what she did.   
He lay in the quiet, listening to her stiff breathing until the liquor finally caught up with him, and slowly, uneasily, he fell into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jazz hands* Aaaaaand we've arrived! It only took us 7 more chapters than in the last book! What's better than a slow burn? Slow burn the sequel--extra slow burn! 
> 
> Okay but seriously, I'm having so much fun writing this fic, and I hope y'all are enjoying it. There's something about the dynamic post-murder attempt that just feels a lot more honest to me, and I'm loving seeing how far I can push this alcoholic, co-dependent, dumpster fire pairing. That being said, enjoy your sin, Heathens! Talk to me, yell at me, let me know how it's going
> 
> Cheers!


	23. Chapter 23

This wasn't a problem, she told herself. Lots of married couples were fond of one another.   
She tried to placate herself nervously, terrified. It wasn't like she liked him or anything.  
“No,” her thoughts chided her, “it isn't like that at all...”   
She suppressed the idea quickly, finding the very notion of it hateful. What was she going to do? Just trying to survive with a man who she had tried to kill in an attempt to escape due to enforced captivity was hard enough, but now this? It was too much. Had she ever managed to look up the definition of Stockholm syndrome? She couldn't remember. She looked over at him, asleep beside her, his back facing her. That bastard.   
He moved in his sleep and her gut twisted within her. This was not what she had planned. She'd only wanted information, and instead had learned almost nothing. Well, not nothing, but- no. No, she couldn't deal with that now. She stared straight ahead at the ceiling again, terrified of the implications. What was she to do now? What could she do now? She kept her arms folded tight over herself, trying very hard to not touch him, to not enter his space in any way. And yet.

She watched the pale walls change color, the dawn encroaching ever so slowly. If she slept, she didn't notice. She finally rose right before sunrise, feeling the intense need to move about, to do something, anything. 

The sun was already in the sky when he awoke, alone. He looked at the empty bed beside him, confused, wondering whether he had dreamt it all. That would be inconvenient. However, the strewn dress on the floor seemed solid enough evidence that she had been there, and had simply left already. He groaned, stretching his aching limbs. What was he to do now? He couldn't let her think she had beaten him; he was still in charge of the situation and she needed to know that. She was nothing to him. He got out of the bed haggardly, feeling a sort of mournful sorrow clench at his chest. He was too easily fooled by her pretty face. He just needed to show her that that's all she was to him--a pretty face, a convenient lay. He got dressed sullenly, despising his weakness. Damn her. She was far more trouble than she was worth. 

She was already at the table when he came down. A cup of coffee sat at his spot. She pretended to be wrapped up in her book. Maybe she could fix things yet, maybe they could go back to the way things were. Granted, their situation had never been less than horrifically fucked up, but still. Some torments were worse than others. He paused, regarding the cup, before lowering himself into the seat, taking it quietly. She didn't speak, waiting to see what he would say.   
“I take it you've already finished your work for the day?” She blinked up at him, confused.  
“Pardon?”  
He gestured out with open hands, “Seeing as you have time enough to sit about doing nothing, I assumed you must have finished with all your work.”   
She looked down at the still open book in her hands, a worn copy of “Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Other Illustrated Texts,” her insides crumbling, “I just thought-”  
“Did you? Did you really? Because as far as I can tell, not much thought went on at all.” His tone was sarcastic, cruel. “What was the plan? That you were going to give me coffee, and I'd forget all about your little shenanigans? We’d kiss, and then I'd turn my back so you could put another knife in it?”

She slammed her book down against the table, standing.   
“You know what? I've had it. I really have.”   
“Oh please, pray tell, what's troubling you? What can I do to make your life easier?”   
“You can cut it with the martyr act for starters, I'm not buying it. Have you ever stopped to wonder why it was that I felt that I had no choice but to escape you? Did you ever stop for even just a moment and ask yourself what my side of the narrative was?”  
“Sorry, I don't often sympathize with my enemies.” His words were biting. She brushed them off.   
“You are one of the most heinous, despicable persons I have ever met. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for that fact. You stole my life from me, and then you think that just because you decided four years in to regard me as a human, that I owe you my allegiance or something?” He didn't respond, his jaw clenched. “I don't owe you anything. As far as I'm concerned, we're still not even, because now, due to your frightful mess, not only am I in deep trouble, but presumably so is the family I worked so hard to protect. This was never about you, so if it makes you feel better to be mean to me, whatever, that's your prerogative, but just don't play at being innocent.”   
He stood sharply, his eyes gleaming with anger, “I never turned on you though; I kept my promise. I kept you alive, didn't I? I kept your brat siblings safe, kept a roof over your head. What do you mean you don't owe me?”  
“Human needs are not luxuries! That is literally less than the least you could do! Do you really think that makes up for everything else?”  
“Well I didn't kill you!”  
“Technically I didn't kill you either!”  
“Though not for lack of trying.”   
She paused, taking a deep, ragged breath in, evening out her tone, “No, I suppose not for lack of trying.”  
“And, what? What do you think comes after that?”  
She looked away, staring out the window, a sad pallor coming across her countenance. He grit his teeth.   
“I… don't know.”  
“And you decided the answer was some shitty coffee?”  
Her face snapped back towards him, “I make fine coffee, thank you very much.”   
He shook his head, “How would you know? You also thought you'd make a fine murderer.”  
“Okay, fine, whatever. What do you think comes next? More senseless chores? I've lived with you for almost five years, I know you don't care about daily grout upkeep. What type of lame revenge is that anyway? At least make it benefit you.”   
He scowled, miffed, “It does benefit me.”  
“How?”  
“I don't have to look at you.”  
“Ha ha, very funny,”  
“I'm serious.” He sat forward, his open hands braced against the table. “I can't look at you, it’s. It's too much.”  
“So you just send me to various parts of the house and yell at me instead?”   
“What else can I do? Kill you? For once, that seems to be more your speed than mine. That's not to say I won't, though.” They sat in silence, both staring at their cups quietly for a painful thirty second eternity. He cleared his throat, leaning back. “Although… I do have to admit you have talent as a fire-starter. I… was reasonably proud of you.”   
She looked up at him, taken somewhat aback, “I… should I say thank you?”  
“That's what one generally does with complements, yes.”   
“Then, thank you… I suppose.” She tapped her finger against the side of the ceramic cup. “If it makes it any better, I drank an entire bottle of liquor that night and threw up three times, all before I even began drinking, so I wasn't exactly having the best time either.”   
He smirked, letting out a single breathy laugh. “Can't hold your arson, eh?”  
“I suppose not.” She looked back down into her cup, a dark, bottomless wishing well.   
“So…” he hesitated, calculating his phrasing. She looked back up at him. “I need to know--why were you stealing my clothes?”  
She paused, trying to recollect, “In case I needed them, I suppose.”  
“What? In case you grew twelve inches and had to disguise yourself as a man at a formal dress event?”   
She felt somewhat ridiculous at his words, “You can make fun of me all you want, but I was flying blind, okay? Not all of us have torrid criminal pasts.”   
“Had. Welcome to the other side of the narrative.”   
“You make crime sound like some sort of rite of passage.”  
“Is it not?”  
“It depends on what you're passing into.”  
“Fair enough.” The heavy silence enveloped them again. 

“So..” she started, quietly, “should I get started on the upstairs tiles, or-”  
“You're already halfway through your book, might as well finish it.” He stood from the table tiredly. “That's not to say I don't expect all the work to be done eventually, though.”  
She unsuccessfully tried to hide a smile as he left, letting the door shut behind him. Everything was terrible, absolutely horrific, but there is comfort in the known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this chapter is necessarily sad, so, enjoy your brief angst-vacation. You're welcome.
> 
> Cheers!


	24. Chapter 24

“Do you suppose there's any way I could get my knives back?”  
He looked up at her from where he was sitting, “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
“I'm not sure that you've ever managed to cook in your life, but it's reasonably hard to do without knives.”  
“And what? What's the idea here? That now that we’ve covered your ulterior motives, we can get back to stabbing me?” He grumbled the words irritatedly, but stood, walking up the stairs. She followed him.  
“We've already talked about this. At this point, it's in my best interest for you to remain alive, so don't worry about that.”  
“Well that's helpful.”  
“And really, the knives are in the best interest of your dinner, but that I can do without.”  
He stopped at the top of the stairs, turning. Her stomach somersaulted as he looked down on her.  
“Don't try to get smart. It's not a good look on you.” He unlocked the door to the bedroom, pushing it open begrudgingly. “And don't think you're getting away with anything. This is a loan. I am letting you use deadly objects only while supervised.”  
“Gee thanks.” She watched him pull a hoard of knives from the bedside table. “You know, if I really wanted to find a way to kill you, I could do it without knives.”  
He turned towards her, the treacherous bundle clutched in his hands, “Is that supposed to be amusing?”   
“No, I’m just saying, give me more credit.”  
He scowled, pushing past her back out the door, “And what? Is that supposed to make me trust you?”  
“If you think this arrangement has anything to do with trust, you're only fooling yourself.”   
He stopped abruptly, almost causing her to collide with him. He looked down, his eyebrow cocked.  
“When did you become so clinical?”  
“Around the same time I became a hostage in my own home.”   
“I’ve already warned you about getting smart with me. It's best not to threaten a man with a pile of knives.” He continued on his way down the stairs. She shrugged, still close behind.  
“Fair enough. Although, and I swear I'm not trying to be quote-unquote smart with this one, but what was the grand plan with this knife scene? If I'm going to be sleeping in that room-”  
“Woah woah woah, who said you were welcomed back into my bed?”   
She paused in disbelief, “You can’t be serious. You're not going to still make me stay in the hall?”   
“It’s like you said,” he placed the knives down on the kitchen counter before turning to face her, “there's simply no room for trust here.”  
“Well that’s just unreasonable.”  
“Oh really? And what do I gain from letting you share my bed?”  
“For one thing, it'll make you less of an ass, if possible.”  
He held his hands up in a mock surrender, “As far as I can tell, you find me irredeemably despicable, so that's not really all that enticing of an offer.”   
“Okay, fine, I'll bite.” She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. “What do you want?”

He scoffed at her impudence. “You have nothing to bargain with. There is literally nothing you can offer me.”  
“I’ll help you read your papers, and I won't ask too many questions.”   
The deal was enticing, but not good enough. He waved it off with his hand.  
“I am telling you now, there is nothing for you to bribe me with that I do not already have.”  
“Nothing?” She raised her eyebrows treacherously. “There's… nothing… that could entice you to let me sleep in a bed, your bed? During the cold winter nights?”   
“Oh, my simple Countess. It's a good thing you're pretty.” He patted her head lightly, “I already own you.”

That, she could have stabbed him for.   
She swatted his hand away, “You keep living that fantasy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do, so if you wouldn’t mind too horribly-”  
“Oh no, nice try. Like I said, supervised deadly object usage. I am not letting you you spend quality time alone with anything sharp.”  
She threw her hands in the air, irritated, “If I was going to try to kill you again, I would have poisoned you or something by now!”  
“You did try to poison me!”  
“No, you accused me of trying to poison you! You act like this is so illogical a development.”  
“Yes, well, I can’t really afford to get comfortable, can I? What happens after you get what you want, hm? Say what you will about me, I let you live after your usefulness expired.”  
“No, you let me live because you’re a gross man who hedged all of his bets on the crippling loneliness of my isolation eventually leading us to sleeping together.”  
He threw his hands in the air now, exasperated, “And where is this coming from?!”  
“Well, if you want to micro-scrutinize our motivations, shouldn’t we look at all of them?”   
“You are not motivation for anything! Except perhaps for murder, your murder specifically.”  
“See, there you go.” She crossed her arms, flicking his words aside. “Five years of you threatening to kill me, at least I had the guts to actually try.”  
He paused, calculating, “It hasn’t been five years.”  
She nodded emphatically, “Almost five.”  
He scoffed, “Well that doesn’t count. Almost-anniversaries aren’t a thing.”  
“Oh my god, please tell me you did not just refer to it as our anniversary.”  
“That’s what it is!”  
“You keep track? You actually know when our… anniversary is?”  
“Of course! You don’t?”  
“I’m more preoccupied by living through my imprisonment than by remembering the date it began.”  
“Well now, that’s just rude.”  
“It’s accurate. Why would you even care?”  
“You act like it’s so difficult to remember a date, like it takes effort for a man to remember the day he inherited an enormous fortune.”  
She blinked, “Wait, you celebrate your anniversary with… my parents’ money?”  
“MY money, MINE. And no I don’t celebrate it, I just remember it. Is that so crazy, so unbelievable?”  
“It is MASSIVELY crazy.”  
“Well I’m not going to apologize for your lack of understanding of how calenders work, so just admit that you’re wrong and we can move on.”  
“Admit that I’m wrong? Wrong about what?”  
“I don’t know exactly, but we wouldn’t be fighting if you weren’t, so, apology accepted.”  
“I didn’t apologize, I-” she took a deep breath in, holding her hands out in front of her. “Okay, if you staying in the kitchen babysitting me is what it takes for this conversation to end, fine. But I am NOT talking to you.”  
“Fine by me. I don’t want to talk to you either.”  
“Okay. Good.” She turned her back to him, beginning to rinse one of the knives in the sink. At least she had her cookware back; that was all she had been after. And yet, she was still infuriated by his insinuation that he controlled her, that he owned her. She began to chop vegetables angrily. Sure, maybe they had a strange relationship, but that didn't mean that she was his. He had always been weirdly possessive, this was just him trying to get under her skin. She wouldn't let it work. And yet, somehow, it continued to work.   
She gripped the handle of the knife tighter than was strictly necessary. He was the one who needed her, not the other way around. She shook her head, trying to knock the memories of yesterday loose. He was so irritating, so hateful, so... him. He was so him and he drove her absolutely mad, and as much as she tried to ignore him standing there, his presence flustered her.   
She hated him. She had to hate him. She didn’t care that he remembered their anniversary, if you could call it that. And she doubly didn’t care that his memory had nothing at all to do with her. She didn’t care at all, and yet the amount it preoccupied her burned within her chest. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone?

He was more than happy to just stand and stare at her. She was pretty with a blade in her hand.  
“You shouldn’t hold that knife so tight.”  
“I thought you weren’t going to talk to me.”  
“I wasn’t, until I got to witness your incompetence firsthand. Here,” he took it from her, trying to resituate it in her grip.  
“You know what, just take the knives, I don’t care, I, I can’t deal with you right now.”  
“Can’t deal with me? I didn’t do anything.”  
“Yes, I know, you’re the picture of innocence-”  
“Well you don’t have to resort to name calling.”  
“You’re completely blameless, but I just cannot look at you right now.”  
“If this is a ploy to be alone with the knives, it’s not working.”  
“I don’t care about the damn knives, I- I have to go.”  
She pushed the door open, leaving the kitchen. He froze a moment, baffled, before hurrying to follow her.


	25. Chapter 25

He caught up to her in the hallway, grabbing her upper arm tightly, keeping her from leaving.  
“What was that about?”  
He face was flushed with annoyance. She wrested her arm from his grip.  
“I told you, I have something I need to do, so if you want to stop following me-”  
“You didn’t want me watching you. What are you doing?”  
She threw her hands up by her face, obviously aggravated, “I told you-”  
“I know, I know, you’re not planning to kill me, and so on and so forth and what have you--What’s the issue then? You can get me drunk and try to seduce me but you can’t stand to be in the same room as me?”  
“I did NOT try to seduce you, that was all your work.”  
He straightened his back at that, puffed with pride, “My deepest apologies, I’ll try my very best to be less irresistable from now on.” She groaned, rolling her eyes, turning to leave again. He held her arm, keeping her in place, “Is that what this is about? Is this about us?”  
“Don’t act like there is an ‘us.’” She swatted his hand away.   
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Countess, but we are married. Is something about that why you’re all angry?”   
“I’m not angry,” she said angrily.  
“Then what is this?”  
“I’m annoyed because I don’t want to see you and you won’t go away, so, goodbye.”  
He smirked, leaning against the wall. “You’re flustered.”  
“I am NOT flustered.” She stuttered the words in her rage.  
“Calm down, Violet, you’re acting like a virgin with a crush.” She tried to respond, but just ended giving him a glare that would have scared a lesser man. It looked very much like she wanted to strangle him. “Look, I don’t blame you.” He leaned his hand against the wall above her, “I am a charming man, you don’t have to pretend you’re immune to that.”  
“Oh my god,” the cruel disbelief in her voice was palpable, “I have to go.”

He shoved her against the wall roughly, his hands tight over her upper arms.   
“And where do you think you're going?”   
“I need-”  
“It was a rhetorical question, Darling.” His words were hot against her skin as he nipped at her throat, his hands sliding down to her hips, pressing her back. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, pushing him away lightly.   
“I don't have time, I-”  
“You don't have time?” There was a mocking purr to his voice, “Have someplace you need to be?” His hand slid down, his fingers dancing lightly across her thigh until he tucked them beneath the fabric of her dress, gripping her leg. She swallowed, averting her face, trying not to let her blush show. “Something you need to do?” His thumb trailed against the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh.   
“Yes, actually, so if you don't mind-”

“Oh, I don't mind at all.” He pressed his lips to hers roughly, enjoying how warm she felt. She was always so warm, so soft. Her fingers tightened slightly, a hummed note of surprise escaping her. “Oh, come now. Relax a little; you're so uptight,” he muttered against her lips. She stiffened at his words. She was always so contrary. “What is so goddamn important that it takes precedence over your dear husband?” He lifted his free hand from her waist, trailing it upwards until it pressed fast to her collarbone. He leaned back, savoring the nervous look on her face. “You need to learn to not always be so goddamn serious.” He lifted his hand against her thigh, letting it brush against the tender skin of her leg, trailing up to her stomach. 

He leaned into her, tightening his grip, his breath hot against the side of her face. She closed her eyes, her fists balled tight about the fabric of his lapel. He kissed her jaw, his mouth unnecessarily warm against her throat. She held her breath at the sensation. He paused, leaning back, his eyes flicking over her face.  
“Are you afraid?” His words seemed mocking but the tone was more amused than anything. She flushed indignantly.  
“Of what? Of you?”  
“Would that be so unreasonable?” He lifted his hand from her sternum, tracing it against the side of her face. She swatted it away.   
“You wish you were so frightening.” He smirked at her harshness, leaning down to meet her eyes on level, continuing as if she hadn't interrupted.  
“I certainly wouldn't blame you if you were. It'd be the first bit of common sense you'd shown in a while.” His eyes searched her face, “Tell me, Dearest, do I make you nervous?”  
She clenched her jaw, “Irritated, mostly.”   
“But only mostly?”   
“You severely overestimate how much I think about you.”  
He cocked his eyebrow, momentarily taken aback before resettling his face into a wicked smile. He traced a small circle with his fingers against the skin of her waist, lowering his tone devilishly.  
“Oh, so you don't have any thoughts about me?”  
“I have plenty of thoughts about you, just not ones you would particularly like.”   
He nodded sagely, “I could say the same.” His fingers slipped a little lower, sliding against her hip bones. She shifted her weight awkwardly. “Of course, you already know the types of things I think about you. And I have to admit, as much as I hate you for what you did… there's also a certain erotic quality to it, don't you think?” 

She scrunched up her nose, leaning away from him, insofar as she could.   
“You can't be serious.”   
He smiled, leering down at her, “First off, don't ever try to predict what I can and cannot be serious about, but come now, you can't say that you don't feel it too.”   
She shook her head vehemently, “I do not. Not at all, not in any sense. What the hell is wrong with you?”   
“So you're sleeping with the man you tried to kill because…?”   
“Not because I tried to kill you, that's for damn sure.”   
“Are you really so certain?” 

And then his fingers were moving against her skin again, brushing against the elastic of her slip. She tightened her grip involuntarily.   
“You don't find the thought even a little enticing? The idea that after you damn well tried to kill me, I have you back in my clutches, and all I'm interested in is trying to fuck you?”   
She set her jaw tightly, “I… Wow. Even after all this time, you still amaze me. How can one person be, just, so entirely terrible?”   
He cocked his eyebrow, amused, “Entirely terrible? I hardly think that's warranted. Not everything I do is as horrible as you make it out to be.”   
“Everything. Everything you do is terrible.”   
“You must admit that I do it all well though.”   
“That hardly makes a difference.” 

“My Dear,” he trailed his thumb against her sensitive skin, savoring the whimper she bit back, “it makes all the difference in the world.” And then he was back at her lips, kissing her deeply, inviting his tongue into her mouth. She didn't resist as he pressed her back against the wall, his pride roaring in his chest as her pliability. Even after all this time, she was still so stubborn. He moved his mouth to her neck, eager to hear the gasps she gave in reply to his work, and she didn't disappoint, her grip tight about him as he moved his tongue and teeth along her.   
Her hands pulled at his jacket as he pressed against her. 

She pulled her face back, trying to catch her breath. He didn’t give her much opportunity, too busy with his own agenda. He continued on his campaign to kiss her. She ducked her head to the side, pulling her face back into his shoulder. How could he like the fact that she’d tried to kill him? What the hell was that about? He nipped at the skin of her throat, drawing her attention back to the present. She looped her arms around his shoulders, holding onto him.   
He paused, feeling her anxious shift.  
“I’m not actually going to hurt you; that was clear, yes?”  
“Yes, I know.”   
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.   
“Not that I would blame you, but if you were afraid-”  
“I’m not afraid.”  
“But you’re not okay.”  
“I’m okay. I’m fine. I just… don’t understand it is all.”  
She felt his heavy sigh against her face, “I should have known you were overthinking things again.” He kissed at her neck, now reddened from his care. “Don’t worry about understanding it, just let it happen. You’ll see.”

She hummed a noncommittal note against him, making him smile. “In the meantime, let’s see if we can’t get your mind off of things. I can’t imagine how infuriating it must be to spend all that time in your head; just the snippets you give me are enough to drive me mad. You’re lucky you’re so goddamn pretty.”  
“Am I?”  
“Pretty and useful. It’s the best thing to be.” 

Her gut twisted within her. She wondered what would happen if he didn’t find her pretty. Few of the members of his crew were. He didn’t seem particularly aesthetically inclined, more interested in the price tag than the product. She sighed, arching her back at his touch, pressing back against him, meeting his pressure. He pushed against her, grinding his tented erection against her. She closed her eyes, erasing her past, trying to imagine what it would be like if normal circumstances had led up to this moment. It left her with a blissful sadness. She opened her eyes, pulling her hands up slightly from his neck to cradle his jaw, drawing him back into a kiss, less urgent this time, more sorrowful. 

He pulled back a few inches, trying to meet her eyes, “What was that?”  
“Don’t worry about understanding it, just let it happen.” Her words were sarcastic, but the tone was soft. She pressed her lips back against his gently, moving her hands down towards the buttons of his shirt. He leaned back.  
“No no, the last time you acted like this, you tried to kill me afterwards.”  
She groaned incredulously, as if he was being ridiculous, “I’m not trying to kill you, damn it.”   
“Then what are you doing?”   
She looked away from his face, back down to his chest. When they stood so close, it was eye level for her. She began to play with the fabric of the shirt along the buttons absentmindedly. He swallowed stiffly.   
She shrugged nonchalantly, “Being pretty and useful, I suppose.”   
He covered her hand with his own, pausing her movement, “I didn’t mean it like that.”  
“I know.” She smirked slightly, meeting his eyes again before sighing, leaning away. “So… you like the fact that I tried to kill you?”  
“Well... No I’m not happy that you tried to kill me per say, but I can’t deny the fact that I find the action… intriguing.”  
“And so that puts us where?”  
He sighed, exasperatedly. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It puts us here. Right here. Let’s be honest. If you wanted me dead, I would be dead.”  
“I did want you dead.”  
“Obviously not enough.”  
She paused, ignoring him, collecting her thoughts, “And you don’t mind that? That I wanted, and still want, you dead?” He shoved down the feeling of pain that blossomed inside him.  
“‘Till death do us part. Never said death had to come as a third party. Though I would prefer it, if it did. At the very least, give me a fighting chance next time.”

When he pressed her back against the wall, his cold fingers still savoring her warm skin, she bent to his presence easily.  
“Though I would like to think I give you reason enough to at least tolerate my presence.” He muttered the words against her lips.  
“Such as?”  
“Such as.” He slid his hand down, letting it seep past her slip, into her undergarments, enjoying the flutter of her fingers against his neck as she clung to him in response.   
“There's a good girl,” he muttered, pressing a long finger inside her. He could feel her smoldering at his words as she buried her face in his shoulder. Good. He slowly worked his way against her, pressing another finger in, delighting at the musical sigh she gave in response. She slid her hands down, holding his shirt tight in her fists, pulling him closer to her. He obliged, grinding into her, pinning her quite thoroughly against the wall. Her breaths grew shaky as he began working his way across her throat again, feeling her sharp intakes of breath.   
“Here, come here.” She tried to push him towards the chair. He looked at it somewhat despondently.  
“Why are you suddenly in charge? Half the fun is getting to push you into things.”  
“Oh my god. Alright, just-”  
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He pulled away from her, sliding his hands to the backs of her thighs, lifting her in a swift heaving gesture, pressing her between himself and the wall. Her arms encircled his shoulders, cooperatively trying to hold herself up. He rocked against her, enjoying the sensation of her tight grip encircling him, as she drew in shallow, staccatoed breaths. Her fingers tightened.  
“Tell me you’re mine.”  
“I can’t do that.” Her words were broken up by her breaths.   
“Sure you can, it’s an easy thing to say. Only two words, really.”  
“That is not going to happen.”  
“Violet. Take a look at your situation. You’re mine.”

He did have a point there, she had to give him that. Still.   
“Not going to happen.”  
“Don’t be so obtuse.” He shifted, holding her back.   
“Don’t be so dramatic.”  
“I can give you what you want, you just need to do one little thing.”  
“You’re not making a particularly good case for me not to kill you.”  
“I could say the same. Just say it. It’s easy, look, just say it like this.” He began to kiss along the exposed skin of her collarbone. “I, Violet, am yours.” Her grip tightened.   
“You're delusional.”  
“And you're mine.” He stepped over to the chair, dropping her somewhat roughly on it, leering down over her. “Just say it. You owe me.”   
“I don't owe you shit.”   
“Language.” He pressed his teeth against the crook of her neck, sliding his hand back up the inside of her thigh. “You know, you really hit the jackpot here. For your one and only to be such a master in the bedroom--I can think of a few people who would literally kill to be in your exact position.” His hand continued to wander up until he was tucking his fingers inside her again, delighted at how easily she rose to his presence. She gripped at him frantically. He practically purred as he shifted to meet her grip. “Saying it is just superfluous at this point, really.” 

“Why do you always insist upon being SO terrible?”   
“Why do you insist upon being so stubborn?”  
“You’d be bored with me if I wasn’t.”  
“Then you have your answer as well.” And then he was pressing her down into the chair, throwing off his jacket, pulling at his belt, trying to undo his pants. He pushed his tongue past her teeth easily, delighted at the sensation of her still cold fingertips against his neck. He ground down against her, taking great pleasure in the light gasp she made in reply. “After all this time, you’re still not too hard to impress.” He chided her jokingly, nipping at her ear.  
“I… really don’t want to know what you’re implying.”   
“I’m not implying anything, I’m just saying,”  
“I don’t want to know what you’re saying either.”  
He shrugged, “Your loss.”  
And then he was back at her lips, fumbling with the fabric of her dress, trying to touch as much of her skin as he could. She obliged, moving up to meet him. He slid his hands up her thighs, brushing his thumbs against the sensitive skin, holding her tight. She gasped, trying to catch her breath, taking the opportunity to unhook the top buttons of his shirt. He rocked back against her and her hands flew to his back, clutching at him, holding him tight, her face to the crook of his neck. He kissed at her shoulder.   
“So I suppose-”  
“No, please. No more jealous sarcasm. Don't ruin this.”  
“I'll do my best,” he muttered, hitching her leg up against him, his hand under her knee. She sighed as he continued his work across her neck. He teasingly rocked against her, building up a torturous pressure, going painfully slowly. He would make her see; she would realize. She let her hands wander down across his chest as she snapped open the few remaining buttons, sliding his shirt off. He shivered at her touch, but then her hands continued, moving down until she reached his hips, until softly, they slipped into his already opened pants. He grit his teeth as her lithe fingers moved on, touching him, her merciful hands gripping his erection. He groaned into the side of her face as he was overcome by the warmth of her palm, her hands stroking him beautifully. “Damn it, Violet.”   
She pulled back far enough for him to see the treacherous darkness of her eyes, and then she slipped out from under him, her free hand pushing him until he was sitting anxiously. He complied readily, absorbed by those wishing-well eyes. Her hand slid down his chest, across his abdomen, until it came to the top of his thigh. And then she slipped down, between his legs, her unkind thumb still dancing across the tip of his cock.   
He couldn’t say exactly why he felt so nervous, but then she leaned down, and her lips were so warm, and all of that anxiety spilled over into rush of pleasure. Her hand gripped the base of his erection, moving against it slowly. He grit his teeth, gripping at the sofa as her head bobbed down. Her sharp tongue was surprisingly kind, and pulled moans out of him eagerly. She slid her mouth along the shaft, the wet warmth of her lips just about killing him. He balled his fist in her hair, focusing all of his energy on lasting long enough for this to get REALLY good. The girl was gifted, he had to give her that, and he leaned his head back, his eyes shut tight as she continued her work. He trusted lightly against her, and she choked for a moment, quickly recovering, looking up at him almost apologetically. He could have melted under those eyes. For all her talent, she was still so fresh, so inexperienced. He loved being the one to ruin that.

“Shit, Violet, shit.” His words were rough as they spilled out from between his teeth. His grip tightened. She could feel how tense he was, how close. His hand fled to her shoulders, pushing her off of him, and then shoving her down.   
He bit at her neck, wasting no time in climbing above her, thrusting himself into her. She resented the desperate moan she gave in reply. She tightened her legs around him, clutching at him, holding him close. He rocked in and out of her, and she followed his rhythm, moving and letting herself be moved, rolling herself forward, closing any space that might have still remained between them.   
His arms wrapped about her, pulling her up, holding her to his chest. His breath was a heavy metronome in her ear, keeping pace with his thrusts against her, his hands tight on her back. She closed her eyes, drowning herself in this isolated moment, trying to lose everything that had led up to this, trying to make it not matter. She wanted for it not to matter. 

She gripped him tightly, her face to his neck, her hair brushing against his cheek. He breathed in the scent of her, stuck on the thought of her. His men had tentatively poked fun at him once for his making of a plan that necessitated tying himself down, but damn it if she wasn't worth it. She was everything, absolutely everything, and good fun to boot. He moved his hand up to the back of her head, maintaining their closeness. Everything about her was delicious, and her high-pitched gasps filled his blood with fire, making him drunk upon her. He clutched at her tightly, making sure she wouldn't get away, wouldn't escape, wouldn't leave. The thrumming heat of her made his thoughts go soft, and coupled with the vibrations of her voice against him, he never stood a chance. 

She erased the past week, past month, past year, trying to figure out how much of herself she had to destroy before this could finally make sense, before this could finally be okay. None of it helped. None of it made any better the fact that she clung to him like he was the answer to her questions, the source of her future; none of it could forgive her. Moreover, nothing could explain it, but as he rocked into her, poised above and over her as shield, she couldn't help but feel that he was the sturdy point around which everything pivoted. Everything came back to him. Any choice she sought to make he had already determined. There was nothing to be done about it. And yet, for the harshness of him, his touch was so soft, so… unexpectedly intimate. Maybe she was a fool, but she really did believe him when he said that he cared about her (inasmuch as he could), that he wanted her. She wanted it all to be simple, to be straightforward, to be… right. And right now, for whatever reason, he was the only thing that felt right. Reaching, she took his hand, lifting it up to her breast, letting herself be moved as he took eager advantage of the invitation, his lips moving to the tender skin of her chest as he continued pounding himself into her. Everything about him was so warm. He groaned against her, shuddering as he finished, desperate and gracious for the relief. She shut her eyes, rolling her head to the side, giving over, giving in.   
He was right. She didn't need to say it at all.


	26. Chapter 26

“I can’t find the whiskey.”   
He looked up as she walked into the room, wiping her hands on a towel.   
“Pardon?”  
“The whiskey.” She gestured behind her towards the kitchen. “I can’t find it, all we have is wine. Where’d you move it to?”  
He shrugged innocently, feigning surprise, “I must have finished it and forgotten to get more.”  
“Alright, your loss. You need to stop forgetting--if you and your troop are going to go through so many bottles of liquor, the least you could do is restock it.” She turned back to continue her work.   
He sank down in his seat, massaging his eyelids. What was he supposed to do about tonight? The logical thing to do would be to keep her banished to the kitchen, as far from information as possible. And yet, she was a valuable asset that he couldn’t really afford to lose. He sighed, watching the closed door. He didn’t trust her, and he shouldn’t. There was no way this would end well for him. The moment she got what she wanted, who knew what would happen? She either had to be kept out of it entirely, or…   
He paused, letting the thought sink across him. He could overwhelm her with information, make her WANT to join the cause, make her a model member of the troop. He wasn’t hedging any bets on her developing a sudden insatiable sense of avarice, those types of things took time he did not have, but he could at least make her understand WHY they were the winning side.   
He stood, calculating, walking into the kitchen. She was standing over a pot, dropping some diced potatoes into it.  
“Where the hell did you get a knife?”  
“I made it.” She gestured to a crude, yet evidently effective, contraption beside her.  
He frowned, “Doesn’t look much like a knife.”  
“It’s almost better--you get even slices easier and quicker.”   
“And its… stab-ability?”  
“Stabbing would take a lot of effort. Best to keep your hands outside of it, though.”  
He shook his head, trying to knock the distraction loose. He had to stay on target.  
“Violet, I’ve been thinking,”  
“That’s a first.”  
“Be quiet or I will FIND a way to stab you. No, I’ve been thinking about the… uniqueness… of your predicament, and I’ve decided to extend an olive branch.”  
She looked up at him, her eyebrow cocked, “Pardon?”  
“I know that you’re after information, and the more I think about it, the better an idea it seems.” She crossed her arms, leaning her hip against the counter, “Yes? And this is done out of the goodness of your heart?”  
He scoffed, “Don’t be so insulting, of course not. I’ve just come to realize that the reason you’re acting completely irrationally is because you have nothing to base your decisions off of.”   
“Well, nothing other than an enemy-of-my-enemy type of thing…”  
“Exactly, so once you see just how terrible they are, you won’t believe you ever IMAGINED picking their side.” He straightened his back, ready for the praise and thanks she was no doubt about to shower him with. To his surprise, she just scowled.   
“This isn’t some sort of schoolyard fight, Olaf.”  
“Yes, I know. It is moderately more deadly.”  
“I’m serious.”  
“As am I.”   
“This isn’t a matter of ‘picking sides,’ this is my life, and my siblings’ lives, and I don’t appreciate you treating it like a game.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with games so long as you win.”  
“How can you be so nonchalant? Haven’t you yourself said people have DIED over this?”  
“Have you never played chess?”  
“Have you any sense of decency?”  
“Look,” he held his hands up, pausing her before she said something they would both regret, “I am offering you information. I am the only one who can give it to you. Either you treat me with the respect that is due and get what you want, or you can continue sneaking around pretending you're not reading things that go over your head anyway.”

He was right. She hated when he was right. She looked over her shoulder, miffed, not wanting to make eye-contact.   
“Alright, fine.”  
“Speak up, it almost sounded as if you were being a brat about this, which I know would never happen, at least, not if you wanted your own interests to be looked after.”  
“Yes, fine, okay.”  
“Fine? Is that the best you can do?”  
“Thank you.” She muttered the words begrudgingly.  
“Is that any way to thank me for spoiling you so horrendously?”  
He closed the space between them, holding her face tight between his hands, kissing her hard. She pulled back, surprised.  
“Someone’s forgotten her manners. Best to correct that before I rethink my offer.”  
When the door shut behind him, she was filled with a sudden treacherous feeling that this could only end poorly.


	27. Chapter 27

They weren't in the mood for business tonight, and spent a large portion of the time talking loudly. She scurried between them, refilling glass after glass, desperately trying to keep them appeased until the dinner could be finished. Her cooking had been somewhat delayed, and so she had to stall.   
She let the door close behind her with a sigh, muffling the loud chatter outside. She took a moment to appreciate the reprise before heading to the counter, uncorking a new bottle of wine.   
The door swung open, temporarily allowing the noise to re-enter the kitchen. She didn't look back, preoccupied in her work.   
“Yes, yes, it's coming, I know.”   
“Good, I'm near about ready to keel over.”   
She frowned, surprised to hear a voice that wasn't Olaf’s. When she turned, she found the lanky woman standing in her kitchen, immersed in an examination of her red manicure.  
“Sorry, I thought- do you need something?”  
The woman didn't answer, taking the bottle from Violet’s hand to refill her own glass.  
“So,” she took a long drag of the wine, “what’s it like?”   
Violet blinked, staring at her. The woman wasn't drunk, and yet, for some reason that made her more nervous than if she was.   
“Pardon?”  
“Don't ‘pardon’ me; it's just us girls, let's be frank.”  
“I'm sorry, I really don't-”  
“What it's like, getting to sleep with him?”   
Violet flushed, taken aback, “I, I really don't think-”  
“Oh come on, drop it. You just show up, flounce your way around his little finger, and then, bam.” She flicked Violet’s neck, “The next thing we know, you're running around all bruised up like some high schooler climbing out from underneath the bleachers.” Violet’s hand covered her neck instinctively, offended.  
“It's not-”  
“Which, by the way, I can offer some help covering if you need. Bruising is such a bother, and that, that just looks immature.” She took another drink. “But anyway, that's all it is, right? You're so small, so young, so convenient. You know that, right?”   
“Listen, I don't have a problem with you, so-”  
“So how does it work?”  
“How does what work?” She didn't try to hide the irritation in her voice, just wanting the woman to leave.  
“You know, how does it work? From everything I've heard, he must have gotten bored with, well, your limited novelty pretty fast. So how does it work?”   
“Oh my god, I am not-”  
“You were a virgin, yeah?”   
“I am NOT having this conversation! Leave my kitchen now, please!” Violet pointed towards the door, enraged. The woman cocked her eyebrow.  
“Touchy subject.”   
“I mean it, get out!”   
She pursed her lips tightly, studying Violet, but didn’t leave. Slowly she leaned back, bracing her weight against the counter, taking another slow sip of her wine.   
“How old are you, kid?”  
“I really don't want-”  
“Oh come on.”  
“If I answer will you leave?”  
“Yeah sure, why not.”   
“No more questions?”  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
“Eighteen. I'm eighteen.”  
“Shit. You're just a kid.” She looked down, into her wine, staring at something beyond the glass.

“I've heard he's good.”   
Violet breathed in sharply, “You said no more.”  
The woman held up one hand placatingly, “Just, that's all I want. I know you're all shy or whatever, just. Is it true? Is it good? Just answer me that.”   
Violet pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers, sighing, “If I answer will you leave me alone?”  
“Yeah sure, whatever you want.”  
“Yes, yes he's, it’s, good.”   
The woman stayed, staring at her quietly. She swirled the wine in her glass pensively.   
“So um, how do you stop it from hurting?”   
Violet stared at her, confused, “What?”  
“Well I mean, you say it's good, yeah? How do you stop it from hurting?” Violet stared at the woman, suddenly very aware of just how much her bones protruded from beneath her strappy dress.   
“Hurting?”  
“Yeah, you know.”  
“Are- I, um,” she shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the right words, “are you… seeing… someone in the troop?”   
“What? No no,” she waved her words off, “no honey, I'm a professional, I don't sleep with my coworkers, only my bosses.”  
“Oh, that's… good.” She trailed off quietly, still trying to avoid eye contact. The silence was awkward. She rubbed at her neck uncomfortably. “I mean, I'm not exactly an expert. My tried and true is stabbing any hand you don't want on you.”   
The woman took another sip from her glass, hiding a slight smile, “Yeah, okay, thanks.” She pushed up off the counter, moving to leave before turning around, looking behind her,  
“Hey, sorry for stepping in on your territory that time. Didn't realize you were exclusive.”   
She blinked at her, still confused, “We’re married.”   
The woman shrugged, “Yeah, but. You know.” She left the room, letting the door shut behind her, closing out the sounds of the laughs that rang throughout the house. Violet stared at the closed door, gripping the wine bottle tight in her hands.

 

There was still a persistent pain in her chest when she re-entered the room, trying to watch without making eye contact with anyone. She brought the wine bottle out, placing it quickly on the table. One of the men smiled at her. She didn't smile back, looking down and away. It was horrifyingly easy to forget that everyone here was joined by villainy alone. The lanky woman had reseated herself, and was gossiping with another woman. Violet passed them quietly, pausing a moment to hand her a piece of paper.   
“This is for you,” she whispered. It was a scrap of white paper, folded in half. She had written down the address of the doctor she visited--they didn't tend to ask too many questions. She liked that.  
The woman glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, pocketing the paper, ignoring her in order to continue her conversation. Violet didn't take offense to the action; she wasn't exactly a desirable comrade, she supposed. If the other women found out that she had talked to her, it wasn't likely they'd be pleased. She didn't mind, she wasn't looking to make friends, after all.   
She kept her head down, continuing on her path, but Olaf stopped her before she could make it into the kitchen.

“Isn't dinner ready yet?”   
She looked up at him as if she was startled he was there, “Soon, it's almost done.”  
He tapped his finger against his glass, annoyed.   
“You had one job. How is it that you couldn't complete even that?”   
A red blush spread over her nose. He hated how charming it was. He frowned harder.  
“Well pardon me, I was somewhat occupied. I told you I was busy.”   
“No excuses.”  
“Alright, you'll just have to find someone else to sleep with then.”   
His face burned as he grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into the kitchen. The door shut behind them. He backed her into a wall.   
“Are you trying to get killed? Is that what you want? Because that’s the direction you're heading in.”   
“Calm down, dinner will be ready in five.”  
“This isn't about dinner anymore. You will NOT disrespect me in front of my inferiors.”  
“Oh come on, no one was listening.”  
“That is beside the point.”  
“Alright, well. I apologize. I am dreadfully sorry.” She met his glare, not moving out from under his grip.   
He stared down at her, “Lesson one. You never know who is watching. Assume you are being watched at all times. This world makes it impossible not to be overheard.”  
“Lesson one?”  
“I told you, it's time you had some more information. This is your first lesson.”  
“Always be paranoid?”  
“Yes, but no, but in a much larger sense, yes.”  
“Okay, that's… helpful?”  
“Don't get smart, I'm doing this as a favor.”  
“Okay, I know. I'm sorry, thanks.”  
He nodded gravely, “That's more like it.” He straightened up, letting go of her, but she still didn't move, staring at the counter beside them. He watched her, her unfocused eyes mapping out something far far away. “What’s the matter now?”  
Her glance turned sharp as it settled back on him, but just as quickly re-softened, the same distant look in them.   
“Nothing, although I do resent that tone.”  
“You're one to talk about tone. What are you up to? You're up to something.”  
“See, this is where excess paranoia does not come in handy.”  
“Be serious. If you don’t tell me, I will assume the worst, and will have no other recourse than to burn all of your books, one by one.”   
That got to her. Anger flared in her eyes as she shoved him.  
“You're such a jerk.”  
“Don't act so surprised.” He looped an arm around her, grabbing her hand as if to waltz. She was delightfully fun to antagonize.   
“I'm serious,” she shoved against his chest, but he tightened his grip, “I can't believe-”  
He spun her in a half circle, “Can't believe what? That you could ever get so lucky? Careful what you say Countess, remember that everything I do is a favor to you.” She gritted her teeth, irritated. She was so easy to play, so predictable. And still, her annoyance was a delicacy he never seemed to get tired of. 

“I can't believe you're just… so you.”  
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. You're welcome.” His cocky smile was infuriating. She couldn't understand the dichotomy between the harshness of his words and the way he never held her too tight, the way he made sure that his grip didn't hurt. True, he held her firmly enough that she couldn't escape, but also in such a way that she didn't want to. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she felt safe. And yet, for some reason, he continued to insist upon being so entirely insufferable.  
Her hands lifted to the side of his face, pulling him down, kissing him hard. She felt him tense in surprise. She stepped closer, feeling a flutter in her chest as he regained his composure, enfolding her in his arms with a smirk.   
“I’ve told you, I'm irresistible.”  
She groaned, “Oh shut up, please shut up.”  
She kissed him again, desperate to find the source of the thrumming in her ribs somewhere behind her teeth, but all it did was grow.   
She loved the way he was so easy to predict, how every movement of his fingers against her wrote out his thoughts. She loved that it was warm, that it wasn't frightening, and she loved having fear reprioritized for a moment. She eased off her toes, breaking the kiss, not making eye contact in the awkward silence.  
“Right, well, the food should be done, so.” She stepped away, acutely aware of the fact that he was still smirking.   
“Yes, I would hate to make you late.” 

Her cheeks burned beautifully, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she turned to grab a plate. He left her her dignity, walking out of the kitchen, back into the dining room.


	28. Chapter 28

She wasn’t allowed in on the dinner. While she wasn’t looking for the company, it still upset her to be so shut out. She scrubbed at a plate harshly, filled with a righteous anger. How long was she going to have to suffer until she was able to accomplish what it was she meant to do?   
The plate cracked under her hands.  
“Shit.” She glanced over her shoulder, expecting him to appear, chiding her for her language. He had a habit of materializing out of nowhere at the most inopportune moments. Surprisingly, the door stayed closed. She stared at it, feeling silly at experiencing the smugness that comes with getting away with something. She turned back to the sink, lifting a shard of the plate. “Shit.” She said it louder this time, feeling the “s” curl between the back of her teeth, escaping as the harsh click of the “t.” Who said swearing wasn’t lady-like? It was an art when you listened to it. She placed the shard down, looking out the window. She squared her shoulders, filled with a proud sense of power. “Fuck.”  
“I heard that.”  
She startled, turning around quickly, “Do you really need to sneak up on me like that?”   
“Evidently I do if you’re going to be using that sort of language.” He let the door shut behind him as he walked over to the cabinets, grabbing a bottle of wine. She looked at him distastefully.   
“At the very least, my life owes me the right to swear.”  
He cocked his eyebrow, opening the bottle, “Swearing is a right now?”  
“It’s the only luxury I still have.”   
“Alright, well, lesson two, find better words.” He took a drink straight from the bottle. “No one will take you seriously if the best insult you can manage is the proud property of ten-year-olds everywhere.”   
She glared at him, pulling the bottle from his hands, “Can you at least try to act civilized?”   
“I’m helping, one less dish for you to wash.” He glanced into the sink, “Or destroy, from the looks of it.”  
“Very funny.” She placed the bottle down, ignoring him as he quickly snatched it back up, more focused on finding something to wrap the shards in before she threw them away.  
“You’re not planning on keeping those?” 

She glanced up at him quickly before looking back to her work, “No, why? Do you want them?”  
He shrugged, “I’m just surprised. It makes a perfectly good weapon.”  
She sighed, “Maybe now you will finally believe me when I say I’m not trying to kill you. Although, if it was,” she turned to face him, pointing at him harshly, “it would NOT be death by ceramics.”   
“Would hate to become predictable, would you?”  
“I just think I would be more creative than that.”  
“You’ve got it all wrong, creativity has nothing to do with it. It’s all about style.”  
She cocked an eyebrow, “Pardon?”  
“Lesson three: everything can be a weapon. Not everything should be a weapon though. You need a perfect intersection of flair and lethality. Improvisation is only good inasfar as it looks cool.”  
She shook her head in disbelief, “You’re delusional.”   
“I’m not wrong though.”  
“Yes, well, whatever you say. This isn’t a discussion I particularly want to have.” She turned back to her work, beginning to scrub the next plate. He lifted it out of her hands.  
“Say for example someone came up behind you in the kitchen, and you used a plate as a weapon. You could utilize it in any number of ways, and it would be a wonderful weapon. If, however, you showed up to a duel with a plate as your weapon of choice, you would be laughed at and promptly killed. In improvisation, your greatest weapon is surprise.”   
She sighed again, taking the plate from his hands, “Are you well-versed in the courtesies of dueling? I would think being challenged to a duel would be surprise enough.”  
He ignored her, continuing, “If, however, you were to sneak into the kitchen of the person who had challenged you, prior to the duel, and then kill them with a plate, that would have a certain amount of style that would once again render it acceptable.”  
“Isn’t that all sorts of dishonorable? Killing someone who has challenged you while their back is turned?”  
“It’s better than killing someone who is blissfully unaware of your intents.” She pursed her lips, but said nothing in reply. “There’s an art to it, but don’t let that intimidate you.” He straightened up, holding the bottle in his hands, smiling down at her, “You are a natural, after all.”

She waited until the door closed behind him to let her shoulders drop. She stared at the pile of plates before her mournfully.   
“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to be absurdly busy this upcoming week, so I don't know how regular my updates are going to be, but the good news is everything should be back to normal. I mean, that's either good or bad news depending on how you feel about reading things that make you sad. Don't worry about it though.
> 
> Cheers!


	29. Chapter 29

He didn't know why he felt nervous. Nonetheless, he couldn't ignore the rolling acidic feeling in his stomach as he sat on the bed. Would she come upstairs? He had told her she wasn't allowed to, but he had only said that to make her mad. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he didn't like sleeping without her. She made a nice space heater. But then again, did he really want her to come up?   
That was a stupid question. Of course he wanted her to, why shouldn't he? You don't need to trust someone to sleep beside them, did you? The button he was trying to undo slipped out from under his fingers. He wiped his sweaty hands on the fabric then moved to continue his work.   
He shivered as he pulled the shirt over his shoulders, the night air was so cold.   
He heard the squeak of the stair and the soft, slow pattern of footsteps. He hurriedly finished undressing, kicking off the rest of his day clothes, reclining in the most casual fashion he could muster. The door opened, and Violet walked in, using the wall to balance herself. She reached up to untie her hair, before seeming to remember that it wasn’t there anymore. Her steps were uneven, and as she moved across the room, her hand never left the wall.   
He frowned, “Are you drunk?”  
She looked up as if she was surprised to see him there.   
“No, no I’m not. Why, are you drunk?”  
“I just saw you half an hour ago, how are you drunk?”  
“I’m not drunk.” She straightened, turning her back to him and beginning to undress. He sat up, doing his best not to be distracted by her sudden nakedness.  
“There is literally no reason for you to be lying; I’m not angry-”  
“I’m telling you, all I had was a glass of wine after dinner. What are you on about?” She then proceeded to get tangled in her dress, letting out a small cry as she stumbled a bit. He sighed, moving towards her, lifting the dress over her head.  
“And by glass I presume you mean bottle?”  
“You’re one to talk. You’re- You’re- You’re throwing black pots in a glass house.” She turned away from him again. He caught himself smiling at her words, but shoved it down. He sat on the bed, leaning back, watching her.   
He had missed watching her undress. She had never cared about accentuating her finer aspects, and so when she undressed, it was like opening some plain box only to find a french dessert inside. There were always so many layers to her clothes, as if she didn’t want anyone knowing she kept skin underneath.   
She pulled off her slip, exposing a toned back, the slight ripple of her spine working its way up between her shoulderblades, disappearing beneath the curve of her hips.   
She picked up a nightgown, an unsightly cotton thing, redeemable only by the way its thinness allowed the warmth of her skin to bleed through at the touch. She glanced over her shoulder, catching his frown.   
“And what is your problem now?”  
“Shouldn’t a Countess wear finer clothes?”  
“I don’t know; you tell me.” She moved to put it on, but he pulled it from her hands, examining it closely.  
“I’m serious. What is it with you and always dressing like you’re in mourning? You never wear the nice things I give you.”   
“I happen to like the clothes I wear. You like costumes, not clothes. And what does it matter anyway?”  
“You’re a Countess, you need to learn to act like one.”  
“So you’ve said before. Is that why you own so many silk shirts?”  
“And that’s another thing; when it’s your nice clothes, you don’t wear them. When it’s mine, you try to kill me and steal them.”  
“Oh my god, I did not try to kill you for your shirts.” She snatched her nightgown back.  
“I’m just saying. You should get something nice.” He ran his hand along her. “I can’t afford a second-rate wife.”   
She rolled her eyes, “Whatever you say.”  
“Don’t pretend that you don’t like the idea,” he sat up, resting his hand on the base of her ribs.  
“Not as much as you do, evidently.”

“Think about it. You’re married to a wealthy man. I could give that to you. Wrap you in cashmere and silk. Get you an entire dress just made of lace.”   
His hand brushed down her thigh. She suppressed a smile.   
“I don’t think a lace dress would be very handy. It would just get in the way.”  
“That’s the beauty of it; it’s made to be taken off. Here.” She felt a pang of regret as he stood up, taking his hands off of her. He went to his closet, pulling a shirt out after quick deliberation. He moved back, sitting down on the bed, pulling her closer to himself. She obliged, slipping her arms into the sleeves of the proffered shirt.   
He began to work across the buttons, slowing and stopping as he reached the cusp of her breasts. She caught herself holding her breath, watching him. He looked up and caught her eyes, treacherously close. “Now doesn’t that feel so much better?”  
She wasn’t sure if it was all the wine, but the cool texture of the silk was phenomenal, she had to give him that. She looked down, pulling the sleeves over her fingertips.  
“Alright, yes, you were right.”   
He smiled, a damnably happy smile. It wasn't often that he seemed genuinely happy. It usually happened right after he was proven right, which, granted, wasn't all that often, so she couldn't fault him.   
She stepped closer to him, resting her elbows on his shoulders. His hands glided to the back of her legs, warm against her bare skin. She hated how much she enjoyed it, how much she wanted to explore that warmth.  
She hesitated, looking down, meeting his uncomfortably soft gaze, “And the lace...”  
“Yes?”  
“Where would that go?”

He studied her closely before moving two careful fingers to her neckline, the ghost of a smile over his lips .  
“Well, here.”   
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the soft skin. She closed her eyes. He traced down from her collar to her breasts, making a slow path with his fingers. 

“Here.”   
His warm lips grazed against her skin where the collar opened, silk turning over to flushed skin. His hands slipped to her ribs, fanning out across her. 

“Here.”  
He pulled her against himself, wrapping his arms behind her and softly laying her down on the bed before pressing a kiss to the silk above the juncture of her ribs. She could feel his hot breath through the fabric. She shivered.   
He paused, sliding his hands down to her hips, and then moved the fabric of the shirt up so that her midriff was exposed. He kissed the sensitive skin of her abdomen, and then trailed his hands further down, moved his thumbs along the soft skin of her thighs, angling her legs against his shoulders. 

“And here.”   
Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening over the silk beneath her hand. He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your comments and messages!!! I cannot tell you how much they mean to me. I love and cherish every single one, even the indescipherable and mean ones. I really am shocked at the lengths some of y'all go to in writing them; some of your comments read more like academic literary analyses than notes on a fanfic! Y'all are some cool cats, and I appreciate you so very much.  
> Cheers!


	30. Chapter 30

They weren't here for her. She had to remember that. He didn't care that it was her; she wasn't a part of the equation. The lanky woman had been right; she was convenient. Conveniently young, conveniently inexperienced, conveniently confused. And yet, that didn't dispel the thrumming of her heart as he lay between her legs, all warmth and wetness and tender care. As annoying as he was, he really did have talent in the bedroom, moving against her in a way that made her see stars. Her toes curled at the juxtaposed heat of his body against the cold air, even his breath sending shivers along her bones, popping into static behind her eyes. 

As much as he loved antagonizing her, there was something indescribably wonderful about the nervous flush of her face when she was quiet. She was still so innocent, so surprised every time he made her feel good. He loved making her feel good. He slid his tongue along her, feeling her quiver and shake, adorably aroused by his simple care. It was cute.   
He wanted her to want him, to give over to him, to swear off ever leaving his side.   
She moaned, and her grip on the sheets tightened. 

She battled between the utter bliss she experienced under his touch and her ultimate desire to be in control of the situation. She was getting in too deep. She needed to remember who he was, what he was. But how could something so bad come in such wonderful packaging? She positively ached to do something, anything, to erase their history, isolate this moment. She wanted it not to matter.   
She focused all of her thoughts, all of her intent, on him; on the sensations of his breath, his firm grip, his warmth, his warmth, his intoxicating warmth-  
She arched her back, crying out, her hand reaching for him frantically.   
“Fuck! Olaf, fuck!” 

“Is that praise or a directive?”  
“Both, it can be both.”   
“If I do, will you say my name again?”  
“We'll see.”  
He moved his way up above her, pressing his lips to her warm neck. Her grip around him was tight, her breath ragged. He ground down against her, sliding his hands beneath the silk shirt, enjoying the taut skin of her ribs. She shuddered, trying to pull him closer still. His hand moved to her breast, pushing her down, simultaneously trying to enjoy her whist making sure she wasn't going anywhere. He wanted her to stay, needed her to stay. No one else could ever be her. She was his trophy, his wife, his kingdom. 

She needed to be careful. This was just some drunken stupidity; she couldn't let it convince her of the existence of things that did not and should not exist. She had to maintain her distance. She had to remain separate, in control. He slid his stiff erection inside her, slowly rolling his hips forward.   
She gasped, clutching at his arms, moving to accommodate his presence. As he thrusted, his fingers tangled in her hair. She wrapped her legs tight against him, overwhelmed.   
“Oh my god, Olaf, yes!” 

And how sweet victory was. He shouldn't let it get to his head, she didn't mean anything she said; after all, she was only here for herself. But in this one moment, he couldn't really force himself to care. She had said his name. Twice. As far as he was concerned, that was the greatest thing that had ever happened to anyone EVER. He nipped at her jawline, trying to hide his exuberant smile. She interrupted his plans, however, reaching for his face, drawing him down into an open-mouthed kiss. After all this time, the feeling of being able to press his tongue into her mouth was still an exciting one. 

Damn it all, if she was going to hell, she was going to burn. There was no point in being a halfway martyr. As he kissed her back, she shoved down the feelings of self-pity that blossomed in her chest. She had temporary fulfillment. That was all she needed. She didn't need his affection, she had his attention for now, and she would do with it what she could. He rolled into her, thrusting steadily. She groaned at the sensation. She thanked the powers that be for the small gift of her convenience, the little blessing of having his touch if not his fondness. She doubted he was the sort of man who really experienced fondness for people anyway. He broke the kiss with a gravelly moan, his teeth gritted as he finished. She held him tight, her face pressed to his shoulder.

He never wanted to move; her clutching him, dressed only in his shirt was too beautiful a gift to give up. He waited until any longer delay would make it awkward, and then slowly worked his way out of her grip. He braced himself up, looking down at her wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Her mussed hair was a ripple of night sky against the sheets. He brushed a stray hair from her face.  
“You know, now that I see it, I'm quite fond of the idea of you wearing my clothes.”  
She smiled, an exhausted, genuine smile, and he felt his heart plummet between his ribs. Adoration was a silly thing. He lay down, pulling her to his chest so that she wouldn't see the look of affection that spilled over his countenance. She was his wife, yes, but in that moment he would give anything to have her be his. But for now, this was enough. It had to be enough.


	31. Chapter 31

She hardly dared to breathe when she awoke, still trapped within the vice grip of his arms. He smelled like red wine and sweat, the dead weight of his unconscious frame effectively keeping her from moving. Not that she wanted to move, but it was nice to have an excuse not to. She lifted her hand ever so slightly until she was touching his chest, resting her fingertips above his heart. She could feel it beating, a slight thrum that seemed out-of-place in such a man. She closed her eyes. This was deadly. It was irredeemably dangerous to regard him in any way remotely touching on affection. He was horrible, inexcusably horrible, and the worst part was that she knew that. She wasn't ignorant of his crimes, she was the victim of a good amount of them. She hated him. But then he sighed in his sleep, and shifted ever-so-slightly, pulling her closer so that her face was pressed to his neck, and she had to remind herself to breath.   
This wasn't good. She needed to get out. She shifted back, hoping to roll out of his grip. He stirred and she froze again, reluctant to wake him. He rolled back towards her, half-consciously pressing a sleepy kiss to the top of her head. Her heart plummeted. He was so human when his personality didn't show.   
She managed to wriggle her way out with considerable effort, not bothering to take the time to dress in her day-clothes before heading down the stairs. It was still early and she'd have time enough. 

She paced back and forth in the kitchen, trying to placate herself. There was no reason for her to be so nervous. She put some water on to boil, and then reached into the cabinet, pulling out some wine. It was shamefully early, but no one was around to see her, so it didn't matter.   
She stared at the pot. This was all so silly, she told herself. The woman from yesterday was right, he didn't want her, she was just a matter of convenience. She was still new enough and close enough for him to find her interesting. The thought plummeted down her spine. She shook off the feeling it left her with.   
She was nervous, that's all this was. Of course she wanted him to want her; it was the only way to secure her and her family’s lives. Wanting him to like her was basically an evolutionary adaptation. It didn't mean anything. She walked out of the kitchen quickly, heading to her spare room. She needed to get out of her head. 

He hated waking up to an empty bed. It took a moment to convince himself that she had, indeed been there last night, and hadn't just been the product of some drunken fever dream. He sat up, groaning, rubbing his eyes. What was he going to do? He couldn't just forgive her. He wanted to; to wave away the past and begin all over again, but common sense and his position predicated that she be put in her place before being allowed back into his counsel. He stared out the window dejectedly before laying back down, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe this would all go away.   
The pillow smelled like her, a faintly floral scent, colored by lemon and oil. He sat back up, almost throwing himself out of the bed. She needed to learn her place quickly; he didn't know how much longer he could take it. 

She turned the page of her book, balancing her cup of coffee in her other hand. Mockingly soft sunlight streamed through the window, settling across the kitchen. She took a sip of her coffee, so entranced in the story that she almost didn't notice when the door opened. 

She was sitting on the counter beside the window, the pale light outlining her in a heavenly glow. He swallowed hard, ducking his face away, determined not to look at her. He looked anyway.   
“I've left your cup on the table.”   
“Oh. Yes. Okay.” He ducked out of the room, quickly returning with his cup in hand. She turned the page of her book. He sauntered over to her nonchalantly, peering over the page, staring at it. She looked up at him, an eyebrow cocked. He hesitated. “I can't actually read upside down just yet.”   
She sighed, turning the book to face him, “The Bride of Lammermoor.”   
“Is it good?”  
“Quite.”  
He nodded perceptively, leaning his elbow on the counter beside her.   
“You know…” she looked up at him, not very happy to be interrupted again, “if you're REALLY serious about helping, you should start taking your drinks without sugar.”

She looked at him in disbelief, “Excuse me?”  
“Lesson… four? Keep your drinks bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword.”   
“That's a stupid lesson.”   
He straightened up, offended, “No it's not.”  
“Yes it is.”   
“Well, you don't know why it's a rule, so.”  
“Alright, care to enlighten me?”   
“No, you don't get to know now. You've lost that privilege.”   
She couldn't believe this was the man of her affections. The thought caught her so off guard she physically drew back from him. He didn't seem to notice.   
“So anyway,” he leaned in closer to her, “is there a reason why you're still wearing my shirt?” She looked down.  
“I… got up early, and I guess I got distracted by my book.”   
He smiled in a condescending way that made her anxious.  
“Are you sure it's not because I'm right?”   
She stared at him, confused, “About what?”  
“You do like fancy clothes, you're just too stubborn to admit it.” She looked down at the shirt, at the loose way it fell over her body.

“I… okay.”  
“Don't worry, I won't embarrass you. Just admit that I'm right.”  
“Yes, okay, whatever.”   
He leaned in, holding her face, kissing her. She pulled back, startled.   
He looked at her, confused at her reaction, “For the coffee.”  
“Oh, yes. Right.”   
“Alright, well. I'll leave you to your book.”  
“You don't have to.” He paused mid-pivot. “You could… stay. If you wanted.” He smirked at her.  
“Miss me already?”  
“You know what? Nevermind. Goodbye.”   
He stepped back over to her, running a hand along her leg. She looked back down at her book. She was such a mystery, so fickle.   
“What's the book about?”   
She looked up, folding the book into her lap, “Treachery.”  
“Don’t you ever read about anything else?”  
She shrugged, “It makes the best stories.”   
He traced his finger along her legs, caught up in his thoughts, “I suppose it does.”


	32. Chapter 32

She stood behind him, absentmindedly stroking his hair as he lifted another paper close to his face, squinting.   
“You know, I really could help you with that.”  
“No, you can't.”  
She sighed, leaning against the back of the couch, “Oh come on. You know I could help.”  
“I know that you want to, I don't know that you can.” He looked up at her, furrowing his brow.  
“I'm tired of being iced out; let me help.”  
“You can't be serious. Do you really think that's all it's going to take? No.”  
“I don't want to be useless.”  
“You're not. I'll let you know when it's time for you to help.”  
“There must be something I can do now!”   
“If you really want to get on my good side, I can think of a few things,” he muttered.   
She shoved his shoulder, “Be serious.”   
“I am. Now, if you really want to be useful, go and fetch me some more wine.”   
She scowled at him but walked away. He sighed. He hated keeping her at arm’s length; it felt so unnatural. But he couldn't risk involving her too soon. The last thing he needed was an over-eager neophyte ruining everything. He wouldn't be able to protect her this time. She returned with two glasses of red wine in hand. He glanced over her curtly, taking one from her.  
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I only asked for one.”  
“This one's for me.”   
“It's early.”   
“Is that a toast, or?”  
“Fair enough.” He went back to his reading. 

She sat down beside him, watching him, feeling more than a bit awkward. He didn't look at her, too immersed in his papers. She swallowed a good bit of the wine, leaning back, trying to give off the illusion of comfort. He didn't move.   
She felt so powerless; was there nothing she could do? She couldn't dispel the rolling anxious feeling in her stomach, telling her that she needed to take matters into her own hands. After all, there wasn't any guarantee that he'd be willing to help her at all; it was up to her to make sure her own needs were met. But how could she get access to his knowledge without playing along? She didn't even know what his plan WAS, let alone how it could possibly benefit her. He needed to see that she wasn't a threat, that she wasn't going to ruin his little plan. There was no telling how much longer she'd be in his favor; she needed to act now, before he got bored of her. She leaned forward, pressing a cheek to his shoulder.   
He looked over at her anticipatorily, “Yes? What is it now?”  
She shrugged, looping her arm beneath his, holding onto his bicep, “Nothing.”   
“Just feeling…what, affectionate? For the first time ever? Nothing to do with you trying to see my things?”   
“Oh come now, you know I can't resist your man-ish charms.” She could practically see the sarcasm in her voice manifest. He looked back to his work.   
“That still doesn't answer the question.” 

He tried to ignore the way her hands felt against him, gripping his arm tightly, tried to continue his reading, but then she sighed, shifting just that much closer to him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in. This was silly. They had slept together, and yet, he could feel his skin buzz where she touched him. All of a sudden it was swelteringly hot. He pulled out of her grip, taking off his jacket and then leaning back into the couch. She followed him, leaning her head back into the crook of his shoulder. Her hand moved beside her face, gently massaging a circle against his collar and chest   
He looked down at her, gently brushing a hair from her face, and then kissed her softly, his voice a whisper against her lips, “You think I'm a fucking idiot, don't you?”   
She startled, pulling her head back, “Excuse me?”  
“Now, I'm not going to tell you to stop, but I am going to tell you that it's not working. But please, continue, by all means.” She gave him a chilling look. 

“You are so unbelievable. Not everything I do has to have a hidden agenda.”  
He was slyer than she thought. She pulled away from him under the guise of being offended. He sighed.  
“If I offer you a compromise, will you let me do my work?”  
“It depends on what that compromise is.”   
“I'll teach you how to read one out of the plethora of codes.”   
She sat up, interested, “Okay, deal.”   
He put down the papers on the table in front of them, taking out a pen, “Alright, do you know what an anagram is?”

She hesitated, her pause giving him her answer.   
“An anagram is a word whose letters have been rearranged to spell a new word. Like this,” he wrote out the word “silent,” and then beneath it wrote out “listen,” drawing lines between the letters to shown how they matched.   
“Okay, yes, I follow.”   
He looked at her face, determined understanding writ across it. He had never met someone so hungry to learn.   
“Wow, your parents really didn’t tell you anything, did they?” He expected a sharp reply for that, but instead she just looked sad. He cleared his throat, desperate to move on before she started crying or something. “Yes, well. This is an incredibly easy way to hide information in plain sight. If someone were to come along and find something like this, for instance,” he handed her the paper he had had her read a few nights prior, “they would dismiss it a nonsense, or something of little importance. Even if you DO know that it has significance, it might still be impossible to work out exactly what it means without any context.”

She took the paper from his hands, glancing over it. The page was covered in crossed-out notes, scribbles and lists of letters. Beside one of the rows was the name “Evan,” crossed out.  
“Evan? Who’s Evan?”   
He shrugged, “A red herring.”  
She looked up at him, “Do you think this is a list of names?”  
There was the flicker of a repressed smile at the corner of his mouth, “I know it is.”  
“What… why would they have a list of people?”  
“It’s a roster.”  
“Okay, but, you said it yourself, it’s impossible to predict what it says without context. You don’t even know how many words they’ve broken up into each line. Why would you think it’s a list of names?”  
He sighed, taking it away from her, “It’s sufficient to say that I am a brilliant and talented man.”  
She shook her head, “No it isn’t.”  
“The deal was that I would teach you one of the codes. I’ve covered my end of the bargain, now you need to keep yours.”  
“No you haven’t. You still haven’t explained how you figured it out, if you even did figure it out.”  
He waved her off with his hand, going back to his reading, “You rearrange the letters, I’ve already told you. Really, I thought you were smarter than this. Now please, go bother someone or something else.” He turned to face her, holding up a finger in warning, “The next time I ask, I will not be so polite.”  
She stood, fuming, stalking out of the room. He waited for the sound of her footsteps to die down before he lifted the list up again, the ghost of a smirk forming across his lips as he ran his finger over the penciled-in rows at the bottom.   
He put the paper back down with a sigh, leaning back, massaging his eyes, “Well, it’ll be interesting to say the least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my Heathens.   
> So. The universe is conspiring against me and I'm kind of going through it right now, so if updates get sparse I just wanted y'all to know that I'm not abandoning this fic, I'd just rather take more time and keep up the quality level of the chapters, rather than give y'all a bunch of fillers that I don't want to write and you don't want to read. So. My apologies, but hopefully everything will settle down soon.
> 
> Cheers


	33. Chapter 33

“You only had one job.”  
“We need more time-”  
“No,” he growled, leaning forward, “you need commitment. Do you not understand how BIG this is?”  
The henchmen cowered, averting their eyes, no one wanting to directly invoke his anger. The man with half an ear spoke up, stuttering his words.  
“There's just so many locations to parse through-”  
“Spare me.” He waved the words off roughly, “These idiots are nothing if not predictable. They're too busy being ‘noble’ to bother with reliability. Check all the newest locations first--they're not going to go back to a base that's been compromised. Chances are, it'll be large and it'll be underground, so check the mountains. I'll let you decide who gets the joyful task.”   
Right then, the door swung open, with Violet carrying in another plate of food. He leaned back, scowling.

“We’ll finish this later.” She eyed him warily but didn't push it, at least not for the moment. She'd have plenty of time to probe him later.   
She could feel the slight tingle of animosity in the air as the members of the troop complied with his words, passively making their resentment towards her known. She looked down, not wanting to meet their gazes. She could feel panic creep along her spine. This wasn't good; if she lost their respect, she'd be back to square one. Not that it mattered too much now, but still, it was nice not being completely overlooked. How was she supposed to walk the balance between their favors?   
She placed the plate down on the table. 

He was practically simmering. Why did she have to go and make things so difficult? Why couldn't she have just played along and followed the role given her? It wasn't particularly hard--all she had to do was keep her mouth shut, keep looking pretty, and not develop a sense of treachery that didn't directly aid him. But no, she had to go and get ideas of her own. Women were chronically unpredictable, and she was the worst of them all. She kept her eyes down as she moved, at least still managing to look pretty, though he seriously doubted she did it on purpose. It was infuriating how little attention she seemed to pay to herself, and yet still manage to occupy most, if not all, of his thoughts. He snapped his fingers, beckoning her over as the group dissolved into quiet chatter.   
“Convenient timing,” he murmured as she arrived.   
She cocked an eyebrow, “Pardon?”  
He kept his voice a whisper, “Don’t ‘pardon’ me, you know what you're doing. You just happened to walk in when you did, hmm?”   
She looked at him, gesturing towards the table, “I was just bringing the food out-”  
“Good, keep to your job. Don't stick that pretty nose places it doesn't belong, I would hate for something to happen to it.”  
She tilted her head to the side, not looking nearly as afraid as she ought to, “How much have you had to drink tonight?” He grit his teeth, fighting the instinct to yell, not wanting to make a scene in front of his men. Instead, he grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her closer to him.  
“Not nearly enough.”   
“Yes, well, okay. I can-” she tried to pull out of his grip but he held her tight. When she looked back up at him, it was with confusion. “I, I can't get you more to drink if you don't let go.”   
He dropped her wrist slowly. She glanced at the troop out of the corner of her eye, checking to see if they had noticed anything. She was so calculating, so good at pretending, even if she liked to think she wasn't.   
“Here, forget the wine, come here.” He reached around her, pulling her close by her waist until she was balanced against him, perched lightly. He pinched her and she squeaked quietly, shifting to a more natural position in an attempt to regain her balance. He held her tight, beckoning her closer and speaking in a low whisper.

He looked out over the group as if disinterestedly, his lips barely moving as he spoke.  
“They don't work for loyalty, they work for payout. Yes, you did well by them once, but it was practically ages ago. It’s nothing personal, it's just business.”  
She looked at him dubiously, “What are you talking about?”  
“You want them to like you?” He brushed the hair off the back of her neck, still not looking directly at her, “You need to give them a reason to.”   
“No one ever said I wanted them to like me. And besides, even if that were true, wouldn’t years of being little less than a maid to them be reason enough?”  
“Oh please; you forget you're so transparent. And no, although it is even more reason for them to like me.”  
She scoffed, not as subtle as him as she looked down at him in disbelief, “Care to explain?”   
“It's simple really; you're mine. You're acting on my orders.” She clenched her jaw, aggravated. He took another casual sip from his glass. “If you want them to like you, then you have to do something of your own accord.”   
She stared out at them, watching as they banged glasses and forks, yelling, mouths full, not caring about the mess they were making.  
“I don't want them to like me.”  
“But you need them to. Come now, you're not stupid. This is how you play the game, and if you're going to be playing,” he reached up, tilting her face to look at him, his eyes filled with sharp concentration, “you must be sure that you are going to win.”   
She swallowed stiffly.


	34. Chapter 34

She couldn't help but feel panicked. Why would he care about his men liking her? Up until now he seemed almost unrelentingly and inexplicably jealous of her every interaction with them, and now he wanted to help her? It didn't make sense.   
She lifted a few plates from the table, balancing them in her arms. He peered over her shoulder, disinclined to give her even a moment of peace. She did her best to ignore him, but then he placed his hands on her shoulders, correcting her posture.   
“Stand up straight. It makes you look more respectable.”   
She kept her voice a low whisper as she responded, “So the old adage is true; there is honor among thieves?”  
“Call it what you like.”   
She couldn't figure his motives. Somehow this must help him, but how could helping her come back to him? What was he getting out of her gaining respectability among the troop? More importantly, why did she care to maintain her standing? She chalked it up to quality of life, thinking rather grimly back on the days of being unable to walk amongst them without being prodded and pinched. She sighed, picking up the stack of plates, making her way into the kitchen. He followed her.  
“I'll be out of your way soon enough, and you can finish your little meeting then.”   
“Yes, yes, and I'm sure you won't be listening behind the door?”  
“Of course not. Do you think I have nothing better to do than spy on you via key-hole?”  
In fact, she had rigged up a device that while outwardly imperceptible, allowed her to listen quite easily through the wall.   
He smiled dangerously, pinching her cheek, “Don't talk back. It alienates you. They respect me, as they should, and you'll never fit in if you don't play nice.” She swatted his hand away.  
“Cards on the table, what are you after?”  
“Well there's another lesson: never show your hand, it quite defeats the purpose of cards. But I'll humor you. What am I up to? Other than trying to interest my dearest wife in my work? Nothing at all. Why, what are you up to?”   
“Oh yes? ‘Nothing at all?’ As usual, I suppose.”   
He smiled at her again, a full toothed smile that chilled her insides. She crossed her arms to hide her shiver.  
“You're always so unnecessarily suspicious.”  
“Really? So, you just want to… help me?”  
He shrugged, “You're my Countess, my liability. Everything you do reflects on me. You'll pardon me for trying to maintain my image.”  
She narrowed her eyes, studying him, “You're lying. Stop lying.” He opened his mouth to protest but she held a hand up, silencing him, “Look, obviously we’re working towards the same goal here. I don't really care why you're helping me, I just want to be sure that you are.”  
“Why Darling, don't you trust me?”   
“As far as I have the power to stop you.”

He had to grin at that, a sense of fond pride settling in his chest, “Well said. We may be able to salvage you yet. I don't see why you still hesitate to believe me, though. Surely I've shown you by now that I mean you no direct harm.”  
“Prove it then.”  
“What else could I do besides continuing NOT to kill you?”  
“Let me sit in on the second half of the meeting.”  
He stared her down, calculating the risks and payoffs. He couldn't afford to trust her too soon.   
“You don't have nearly enough information; it'll be gibberish to you.”   
“I'm a fast learner.”  
“You're going to hear plenty of things you don't like.”  
“I've been doing that for years now.”  
“And your speaking privileges are going to have to be revoked.”  
“Excuse me?” That one got to her. He smiled, not bothering to hide his smugness.   
“Well, we can't be bothered to dumb it down for you, and you are only too fond of asking unnecessary amounts of questions, so. Your speaking privileges will be revoked.”   
She grit her teeth, scowling, “Fine-”  
“For the rest of the evening.”   
“Now you're just being a jerk.”  
“What was that? I'm sorry, did you say something?”  
“Really, how can one person be SO immature-”  
“Because I KNOW a certain someone wouldn't DARE insult a certain someone else-”  
“Honest to god, do you wake up every morning and just try to imagine ways to top your antics from the day before-”  
“ESPECIALLY if that certain someone wanted to be let in on a CERTAIN SOMETHING and could only do that by NOT being A BRAT-”  
“Alright, fine, you know what,” she threw her hands up in the air, “fine. If I have to play some stupid game in order to get what I need, than that's what I'm going to do.”  
“My god, you are remarkably bad at this.” She began to reply but stopped herself, crossing her arms in front of her chest tightly, angrily. He smiled, “Much better. You'll do well to remember yourself, now. I am doing this as a favor.” He was going to push it further but the look in her eyes gave him pause. He turned, opening the door, “After you, Countess.” She shot him one more piercing glance before walking back out into the hall. 

He gripped her by the back of her neck, steering her to the seat beside his. He knew she hated when he did that, which really was much of the reason why he did it.   
Her face was locked in a tight-lipped look of irritation. It was hard to believe so much personality could reside in so small a frame. He “accidentally” pinched her a bit too tightly, causing her to look at him in consternation. He had to stifle a smile of amusement at her reproachful glance. She sat in the seat, miffed. He much preferred her when she was angry; it was a becoming look on her. He squeezed her knee beneath the table. She pulled away. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together as he did.

“As I was saying,” the troop turned to look at him as he began to speak, “you need to redouble your efforts, and quickly. We don't have much time to spare, if we hope to have this over and done with.”   
They shifted anxiously, a few giving Violet passing glances.   
“And then what?”  
“‘And then what?’ And then, we finish the work we should have seen off years ago.” He pressed his fingertips to the table, smiling chillingly, “The end is almost here. However, there's no use in squashing a few pests if you can't eradicate the nest. This isn't problem-solving, this is extermination.” She shot him a look of inquisitive alarm, but he refused to meet her glance. “This is where the fun begins.” He shuffled through some papers, sliding a few across the table, “I've already been in touch with some of my… correspondents, who are only too eager to see this whole thing off. So, if you were looking to pick a time to start being dispensable, this is not it. We simply don't have time for inconvenience anymore.”   
The group nodded their approval, a few looking away nervously. Violet clenched her jaw, fighting to keep from interrupting. What did he mean “exterminate?” She felt queasy at the thought of being implicated in any more death.   
He stroked his chin pensively, apparently nonplussed at such content, “Of course, things have been somewhat complicated by our recent failures, but that's no reason why we can't make the best of so bleary a situation. We're sitting on a proverbial nest of fortunes, and you know that saying,” he finally looked at her, a curt smug glance that didn't sit right within her, “you can't make an omelette without breaking a few laws.”   
He took a drink from his glass. She thought it was remarkable how much the wine looked like blood.


	35. Chapter 35

She had almost forgotten how much she disliked seeing him like this. Almost. Fear had become such a constant part of her life, she no longer remembered what it was like to be without it, but that didn't dissuade the pain it caused her. She closed her eyes, focusing on the dull heat of the wine in her belly, trying very hard not to throw up.   
It was all a game to him. All some silly chess game, expendable pieces and all. And her? She might have made her way higher in the ranks, but that didn't make her any less a pawn. Everything could go as long as he got what he wanted. And what he wanted was to see it all burn; not just to set everything aflame, but to watch it, to enjoy it. She tried to still her heart, tried to reason away the thrumming pain.   
She had known this was happening, this was all old news. It was her job now to play his game; she had to keep him distracted long enough to see her goals met. She could do that. She would do that. She took another drink of wine. 

He was surprised she had kept her promise of silence; he truly hadn't expected it. He had watched her face pale by shades through the meeting, growing whiter and whiter even as she continued to drink. Violence still didn't sit well with her. What a pity.   
He let off teasing her, not wanting to tempt her into remission. She seemed preoccupied enough as it was. How did she imagine she would ever make it through if she couldn't even engage in theoretics? She was infuriatingly stubborn, still the same headstrong black-and-white girl she had ever been. He looked away.   
They were all talking amicably now. It was loud, wonderfully loud. He reclined back, unable to resist the temptation to use her lap as a footrest. She glared up at him, startled. He offered only his charming smile as restitution, stiffening his legs against her attempt to shove him off. She glowered at him before looking away again, taking another drink from her glass. She had built up quite the tolerance since his return. She had made her feelings on the recent lack of strong liquor quite clear, and he had had to remind her that he didn't answer to her preferences.   
Her eyebrows sat low on her forehead, furrowed. He looked away, not wanting to be bothered with any more thoughts of her. She was an inconvenience at best. He had a hard time reconciling why he kept her around sometimes. He gifted himself a quick glance over at her.  
She was watching him, her eyes black curtains hung heavy with lashes, holding all the power of the Inquisition. He looked away again, taking another pull from his wine to mask his discomfort. 

A hand landed on her shoulder. She looked up, startled.  
“Glad to have you back!”  
The man with no pinkies was smiling down on her. She glanced over at Olaf quickly enough to catch his amused smile and cocked eyebrow. She looked back to the man, giving him a smile that she hoped looked sincere.   
“You shouldn't tuck her away so much. She's the prettiest thing we have to look at.” He stiffened a little, “No offense.”  
“None taken, jealousy is an inspiring quality in one's inferiors.” She glanced at him curtly. The man didn't remove his hand from her shoulder.  
Another man appeared, the one with the silver nose. He leaned against the table beside her. She tried to avoid his eyes, hoping he wouldn't speak to her.  
“There's nothing quite like seeing years of effort finally pay off.”   
“Quite.”   
She kept her eyes down, reengaging herself with her drink. The man had kept his hand on her shoulder for too long now.   
“Here's the real question--what do we do once this is all over? Once we're finished?”  
Olaf stared at her as he addressed the men, “Anything we damn please.”

He wondered what she would do after, whether she would stay once it was seen through. The only thing he had to keep her was about to slip away. He took another drink. He didn't need her, but he would regret seeing her go. He stole another glance at her. She looked so small compared to the two men beside her. She tried to roll her shoulder out of the man’s grip. He pulled his feet off of her lap, grabbing her arm and pulling her up. She stared at him curiously, but allowed herself to be maneuvered. He pulled at her hip, pulling her into her lap. There was no reason for him not to enjoy his claim while he still had it. 

She wondered how much longer she could manage to keep his attention. His jealousy would only be usable for so long. There was no reason for him to be jealous of something he no longer needed. She leaned against the back of the chair. He slid his hand along her leg.   
“So tell us,” He looked up at his men, who were smirking at him humorously as they spoke, “what’s the final goal? Wealth, women, and soon power? What more could you possibly have?”   
“Anything I want.” His grip tightened over her knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!   
> I am working on getting everything back in order, and, universe willing, it all should be back under control soon and updates will resume as usual. That being said, I have some stuff in the works that I am SUPER excited about, which I'll tell y'all about at a later date, but for now, enjoy your little bit of pain
> 
> Cheers!


	36. Chapter 36

Her thoughts were soft with the effect of the wine, reeling after one another as loose ends and frayed bits. She kept wiping the table, trying very hard to focus on her work.   
“So, was it worth it?” She clenched her jaw at his mocking tone, not able to respond. He smirked, crossing behind her, swirling the wine in his glass. “Come now, why so shy?” He laughed at his own joke, falling down into his chair. She averted her eyes, annoyed at his antics. “Have nothing to say? That's new.” He rolled his voice over his words, obviously already drunk. She ignored him, refusing to even look at him, but she could feel his eyes still. “You know,” he sat up, “I don't believe I've ever experienced silence at your hands. It's quite nice.” She fought the urge to shoot him a dirty look, forcing herself to focus. It obviously irritated him, he wasn't used to being ignored, and he tapped his fingers against his glass loudly. She refused to give into his childish games; she wouldn't humor his nonsense any further than she already had. 

He didn't like this, didn't like the idea of her being able to ignore him. It wasn't that he needed to be the center of attention so much as the fact that he DESERVED to be the center of attention, particularly hers. He stood up again, walking behind her, dusting his fingers across her hips.  
“Cat’s got your tongue?” She swatted at him roughly, but didn't speak. He frowned. This plot was backfiring immensely. He traced his fingers along her, brushing the hair off her neck, drunkenly trying to sway her affections. She sighed, bracing her hands against the table before turning to face him, arms crossed.  
There was such anger in her eyes. It was volatile, packaged TNT, a string of firecrackers that he very much wanted to light. He pinched the tip of her chin, tilting her head up.   
“You said you wanted to play the game.” She didn't move, just continued looking at him accusatorily. He sighed, “Your silence is off putting, please stop. I am commanding you to stop.”   
She glanced over him curtly then turned back to her work.   
“Are you deaf now too? I said you could talk.”  
“That doesn't mean I WANT to talk to you.”   
He smiled, satisfied, kissing lightly behind her ear, “Such sharp words for such a nice girl.” 

She craned her neck into the kiss instinctively before stepping away again, “Please let me alone.”  
“What's the matter, couldn't handle it? I told you you weren't ready.” She turned back to face him, all anger and annoyance at his arrogance and carelessness. He was a terrible man, and she hated him. She crossed her arms, trying to still her shaking frame.  
“So what are you going to do?”   
He cocked his eyebrow, “Pardon?”  
“During, after, whatever. What's the plan, what are you doing?”  
“I thought that was clear--anything I damn please.”  
“And what pleases you? What do you want?”   
He frowned down at her, “What a silly question. Money, retribution, power, what else is there?”  
“What else, indeed?”  
“If you're still having moral qualms, I can't help you. I can promise you none of this is being done in the name of self-serving ‘nobility,’ so-”  
“Get off that, we're way past that now.”   
He looked down at her, surprised, “Oh, we are?” He shook his head bemusedly, “You really are lucky you're still pretty enough to be useful, because you-”  
“Oh, am I? Am I really? Well, thank you EVER so much for being kind enough to say so.”  
She threw down the rag, storming off. He followed behind, yelling after her.  
“See? I knew this would happen. We're in a fight again because YOU thought you could handle things you obviously CAN’T!”  
“Well pardon me,” she turned to face him, “if I happen to believe that gruesome acts should only be undertaken for things greater than, what was it, wealth, women and power?”   
“That's where you're wrong.” He stepped up to her, “a motive is a motive, and there's still blood on your hands regardless, Miss Innocence. The sooner you learn to reconcile that, the better off you'll be.”  
“Honestly, do you see the ENTIRE world as disposable?”  
“I take what I can when I am able to. I’m not ashamed of that.”  
“And everyone else?”  
“Is far less important.”

“Yes.” Her voice grew cold, “That's what I thought.”   
“This is why I didn't want you there, I-”   
“Just, drop it. Forget it, I…” she trailed off, her voice going quiet before she turned, stumbling as she tried to walk. He caught her, holding her up.  
“You're drunk.”  
“I'm not drunk.”  
“You're not sober.”  
“That doesn't mean I’m drunk.”

He held her by her arm, letting her lean her reluctant weight against him. He was so warm. How could he be so heinous? There was a callous cruelty in his general perception of everyone as potential sacrifices, but she would feel even worse if she knew he had planned to lose her this entire time. She righted herself, using him as support, wondering if her inebriation helped or hurt her cause of forced endearment. She closed her eyes. She could feel his bones beneath his clothes. She held onto his arm. He sighed.  
“Sometimes I forget just how much you have to say.”

She laughed, a single breathy, sarcastic laugh that made him feel lighter, but it was a moment before she spoke again.   
“Why don't you think I can help?”   
“It's not that I don't-”  
“It's because you don't trust me, I know.”   
“I've already made it clear that I find your actions admirable. It's not that I don't think you can, it's that I don't think you should.”  
“Since when are you interested in protecting me?”  
“I'm not.”

“No, I get it, I'm just some sort of rare collector’s item, right? Your nice trophy? A convenient reminder of your accomplishments to date?” What would happen once she was no longer a part of his greatest success story? She folded herself into a nearby chair, reprimanding herself for acting so contrary to plan.   
“What's got you so angry?” He reclined into the seat beside her, picking a glass up off the table and finishing it.   
“I'm not angry.”  
“You're always angry.” He put the glass back down, “You're an angry drunk.”   
“I'm not drunk and I'm not angry.”   
“Alright, well.” They sat in a heavy silence. “What did you expect? This couldn't have surprised you.”  
“It didn't, I just- I suppose I forgot.”  
“Forgot?”  
“Forgot what it was like to be in on the murder.”  
“You can't be serious.”  
“You used the word exterminate.”   
“And I meant it.”  
“I know.”   
She stared at the floor, unable to look at him. She was being so stupid. She always knew it was like this, but it had never been so raw before, so real. He sighed again, spinning the glass on the table. What happened after this? What did he mean by “finished?” What happened to her once this was done? She could spend the rest of her life trying to protect her family, but there was no reason for them to want her. She was ruined, she had nowhere to go. He was all that she had, the only thing left. She needed to get it all together, to make sure she was so far in that he couldn't get rid of her, that he wouldn't want to get rid of her.  
She looked at him. He was wretched and horrible, and he was all that she had.   
She stood, sighing, “Just, forget it. I'm going to bed.”

“You don't need to be a part of this, you know.”  
She stopped, turning to face him, “You know that I do.”  
“Did you really not think-”  
“No, I knew. It's just weird is all. It's easy to forget sometimes.”  
“Forget? Forget what?”   
“How cold you can be.”  
“Cold?”  
“Exceedingly so.”   
He smirked, folding his hands behind his back, approaching her lazily.  
“You find me cold?”  
“Only when you're not acting jealous.”  
“Jealous? Do I look like the sort of man who becomes jealous?”   
“Then you didn't mind? Your man gripping my shoulder?” He shrugged. “And how about when he touched my leg?”   
His face paled slightly. Had they really been so bold? She smiled smugly. He scowled, unamused.   
“If anything, you're the one who seems to care. Do you want me to be jealous?”  
“Are you saying you aren't?”  
“I'm saying you are.”  
“What would I have to be jealous of?”   
“So you're satisfied then? With everything? You have enough?”  
“My Dear,” he gripped her chin, “there will never be enough.”   
She met his gaze as brushed his hand off roughly.

“So,” he looked down on her patronizingly, “you find me cold?”  
“Only most of the time.”  
“Most of the time?”   
“Yes.”   
He circled behind her, running his fingers along the back of her neck. She closed her eyes.   
“I can't be all that bad.”  
“Don't you always insist upon being the best at everything you do?”  
“You just have to know everything, don't you?”   
He held her arm, guiding her gently alongside him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Y'all have been awfully quiet lately... I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing) 
> 
> Cheers


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Future Author(tm) -  
> For all of yall reading this as a finished work: This is a mandatory rest stop! Right before this chapter is a really good place to take a pause for sleep/water/homework/food/whatever it is that you've been putting off! Go. The story will wait for you right here. 
> 
> Cheers!

He didn't let go of her, even as they walked into their room. She stumbled a little bit, uneasy on her feet. He caught her, holding her firm.  
They stood still, in the dark and silence, feeling the weight of the night and the wine. He looked down at her.  
She clutched his arm tightly, using him to hold herself up. He brushed her hair aside with his free hand.  
“How much longer until it grows back?”  
“I don't know.”  
“I much preferred it before.”  
“Well, it's not your hair, is it?”  
He ignored her insolence, continuing to watch her.  
She tried to shift her weight and stumbled, causing him to tighten his grip. She leaned into him, using him as support to hold her treacherously wavering frame. He took advantage of her reliance, slipping his arms around her, his lips dancing at her neck.  
“I have you--no need to worry.” His hands slid across her, feeling her lithe body. “I have you.”  
She shut her eyes tightly, letting herself be maneuvered against his motions. He rolled into her, edging his way into her presence. She let him, his hands greedy travelers mapping the landscape of her tired form. She tightened her grip. He continued to kiss along her neck, leaving red marks as a trail behind him. She sighed, moving her shoulder out of his way as he directed her through touch.  
And then he was laying her down, standing between her legs, leaning over her. He kissed her roughly as his hand slid along her thigh. She leaned her head to the side, watching the blank pattern of the wall. He paused.  
“What's happening?”  
“Nothing, it's okay.”  
“Not as fiery as you used to be. Did attempted murder take that out of you too?” She didn't reply. He sighed, taking his hands off her, bracing against the bed. “I don't appreciate being lied to, and marital dishonesty is unbecoming in a woman. What's happening with you?”  
“Nothing, I've told you, it's nothing. I just… realized I had forgotten my own birthday.”  
He paused, calculating, “When… what month-”  
“Last week. It was last week.”  
“Another trip around the sun.” He looked down at her, resigned to her distraction. “If it helps, you're not an old hag yet. You're still young enough to be pretty.” 

She wanted to hit him for that, but she didn't have the energy, so she just hummed a noncommittal note. His hand wandered back to her waist, drawing soft designs against her skin. She closed her eyes.  
His fingers moved across the side of her hip and then gingerly, slowly, explored further up, until he had made his way over to the skin below her breast, still mapping out round patterns with the pad of his finger gently, less urgently.  
“You are a very beautiful woman, you know.”  
“So I’ve been told.”  
“You don’t think so?”  
“I’ve never cared enough to check.”  
He brushed at her hair gently, moving back down to kiss along her jaw, “Every woman cares.”  
“I don’t.”  
“Well, it’s a good thing that mine’s the only opinion that matters.” She didn’t reply, still staring off as he busied himself with whatever it was that he got out of marking up the side of her jugular like a 16 year old boy. “Don’t worry--give it a moment and I’ll make you feel beautiful.”  
“I wasn’t worried.”  
“Then what’s got you so bothered?”  
She sighed, “Don’t you ever just think about how strange everything is? How none of this makes any sense?”  
He scoffed but didn’t give over his work, “Of course it makes sense. You just can’t see the big picture.”  
She shook her head no, softly, “Nothing about it seems right. And now another year has passed and everything is still… out of place.”  
He leaned back, looking down at her, “Darling, everything about this is inevitable.”  
“Would you stop trying to get laid and listen to me?”  
He frowned, miffed, “I am listening. You’re just… wrong.”  
“As ever, I suppose.”  
“No, look, it’s like this,” he moved to the bed beside her, “sure, you could have made any one out of your hundreds of choices differently; there are although too many ways for your life to have gone, okay? There are too many what-ifs. But you, for whatever reason, didn’t make those choices. And it’s not luck, every part of you was ready to end up here. It was inevitable.” She looked away, flicking off his words.  
“Haven’t I already told you off for trying to act philosophical in order to seduce me?”  
“Not everything I do has to be about you.”  
“I wish it wouldn't.”  
“Meaning?”  
“I don't know.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I’d very much like to just… not, for a while.”  
“Not?”  
“Not worry, not think. Not exist.” 

He stared at her.  
“And what good would that do you?”  
“It would prevent more bad.”  
“Surely not everything is so bad.”  
She looked over at him, those damnable dark eyes acting as the weight of a fishing line, “Most everything.”  
“Is this bad?”  
“Not particularly.” She looked away again. He hesitated, and then slowly, placed his hand on her side, drawing deep circles with his thumb. She closed her eyes.  
“Is this?”  
“I don't know. No, I suppose not.”  
She was exquisite, her moral ambiguity only acting to further the gifts nature had given her. He sat up, leaning over her, softly bringing his lips down to hers.  
“And this?” The words were whispered against her mouth.  
Her breath was broken up as she drew it in, “It could be.” He hummed a note of understanding, then leaning down, kissed her again. She kissed him back, her light fingers raising to his face.  
His hand slid down, savoring the warmth of the skin beneath her clothes, the soft curves of her body. He reached the tender skin at the back of her knee, and then, slowly, made his way back up until his fingers brushed the hem of her dress. He paused, giving her a chance to interrupt, but she didn't make any attempt to stop him. He fanned his fingers out as he made his way along her leg, feeling her sigh catch behind his teeth as he kissed her again. He wandered to her inner thigh and then paused, tracing more circles.  
“And this? Is this bad?” He whispered the words between her parted lips.  
“Yes. It is very bad.”  
“Bad as in ‘stop,’ or bad enough to make it good?”  
“Good, very good, but it shouldn't be.” Her words were warm against him.  
“Don't worry about what it should be, just let it be what it is.” He kissed her again, her fingers tightening against him.  
She gasped lightly as he touched her, and he took the chance to invite his tongue between her teeth, savoring the way she moved so easily to his unspoken command. He pushed himself down against her, trying to get closer, to taste the delicious blush that colored her cheeks. He slipped his fingers inside her, into the thrumming warmth, and she pulled out of the kiss, pressing her face to his shoulder, trying to stifle the sound she made in response. He moved his free hand, pushing her back, painfully moving her further away from himself.  
“No, I want to be able to look at you.”  
“You're just being a jerk.”  
“Maybe so, but you can't deny me.”  
“Stop fooling around-”  
“I'm not. I'm getting what I want. This may be a surprise, but I do enjoy the sight of you enjoying me.” He pushed his long fingers into her, and she arched against his hands, her face still showing the same novice surprise it had the first time. Her hands fluttered to her mouth, covering another gasp. He smirked, “There we go, that’s good.” 

Her shaking hands reached for his shoulders, scrunching the fabric tight between her fingers. She wanted to say something, anything, to put herself back in charge, but he had all the power at the moment, and he was making her bones positively shake. She tried to bite back another gasp, but it escaped her as an embarrassingly needy moan. He tried and failed to stifle his exuberant reaction. She pushed herself up so that she was braced on one elbow, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt into a deep kiss, feeling him fumble a bit at his conflicting feelings as she, equally distracted, began to undo the buttons.  
His hands against her were a warm static that enveloped her slowly. He knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. She could see his muscles flex as he moved, taking charge, placing her exactly as he wanted her to be. It was almost like watching someone direct a play; he was so certain and so right, every single time. 

And then her hands were searching for his belt, and he had to fight the urge to quicken her pace. The amount of effort it took to make his actions suggest that he was in control was more than frustrating. He slid his hands along her legs again, letting them rest on her hips, feeling the strain and vibrations as she swallowed a moan, turning it into a whimper. She pushed herself up ever so slightly, pulling back a few inches. Her arms crossed her body, pulling off her dress in that way that all girls somehow are born knowing how to do, revealing the soft skin beneath, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. How could she still be so enticing? He pressed his lips against her, nipping at the soft skin along her abdomen, relishing the way she pulled back at the slight pinch, successfully maneuvering herself further into his arms. He pressed himself to her, wanting to claim every bit of her, pushing his tongue into her mouth. Her arms encircled him delightfully as he tugged off her still peskily present undergarments, getting them out of the way. Finally satisfied, he ran his hands back up the length of her legs, enjoying every inch of her. Her lips were pressed to his shoulder, and the sounds she made could have killed him. He rocked against her, her hands clutching at his back, holding him.  
“Is this good?” His words were breathier than he would have liked.  
“I want it to be.”  
He kissed along the side of her neck and shoulder, rocking against her hips, “But this, is this good?”  
“Yes, it’s good.”  
For a moment there was just the sound of their breathing, rising and harmonizing in the air.  
“Can I make it better?”  
“Yes, please.”  
He moved his hand so that it rested on the side of her hips, his thumb just below the barely-visible scar from so long ago. Still fighting the urge to move too quickly, he held onto her tightly as he slid inside her. Her grip tightened, her fingers leaving small marks on his back as she gasped at his hard presence. She was so small, so… corruptible.  
He glanced over her features to make sure she was okay, and then still holding her down, slid himself all the way inside. She let out a gasp that turned into a groan as he began to move, rolling himself against her.  
“That's good, there you go,” he kissed the words along her cheekbone, knotting his hand in her hair.  
She gave out staccato cries in time with his slow thrusts, her fingers digging into him as he moved. Her hands fled to the side of his face, her breath hot as she pulled him back into a kiss, holding him tight to her. He pressed into her with an urgency as she arched against him, those wonderfully parted lips gasping musical notes against his open mouth. His hand slipped up her frame until he was pushing her down again, away from him.  
“I’ve already told you,” his words were broken up by his ragged breathing, “I want to see you.”  
“Then give me something for you to see.” Her words were sharp but a slight stutter betrayed her. Her rather obvious ploy worked, and his hands tightened against her as he began to pound into her more quickly. She cried out, pushing up against his touch.  
His hand left her shoulder, exploring her breast, still amazed at how soft she was. Her thighs pressed into his sides, her hips trying to rise to meet him. He held her, his thumb tight to the joint of her leg, trying to keep her still. 

He had always been this same person; so desperate to have what he wanted. In this moment she could take solace in being the thing that he wanted, but only time would tell exactly how long that would last. His grip was tight, so tight it would have hurt if it hadn't felt exactly right. His head ducked down as he pressed gasping kisses to her sternum, her abdomen, her chest, leaving telltale flushed marks across her. He had to write his name across everything he saw; he was never content to let something simply be. She tried not to read too much into it for fear of generating false hope. Sure, he was claiming her now, but bruises fade quickly. He slid his hands across her skin and her toes curled. 

He was right; she was so beautiful. And maybe she wasn't his, but she was his. It was a shame no one would ever understand the extent of his victory, could never understand how when she was all stretched out, the word “yes” caught on her teeth, how she was a kingdom to be explored and conquered. Still, he was filled with a roaring pride at being the only one to know. She was El Dorado, she was Atlantis, she was his.  
The sounds he pulled from her were a song he longed to play over and over again, and so again and again he pressed against her in ways that made her marvelously vocal. He rocked into her swiftly, balancing his weight above her, savoring the rare moment of having her speechless. She still didn't know how to properly behave, and she kept pushing back, pushing against him, looking for more. He would gladly give her anything with open palm if only he could continue to work over the map of her skin.  
Her fingers dug into him beautifully as she came, her countenance humorously concerned, as if she still hadn't quite figured out how it all happened. He still held her back, enjoying the slight spill of her hair behind her, a dark halo outlining her pale features. She was dark and treacherous ocean waters, hidden horrors, and he wanted to be consumed in her depth, wanted to be Mercader to her form.  
He grit his teeth as he finished soon after, acutely aware of how hard his fingers were digging into her. She made no move to pull away, encircling his neck with her arms, holding him close enough that he could feel the speed of her heart. What a silly girl, he thought to himself, and yet, he felt his own heart pounding in his chest as he lay down, relaxing his hands slowly, practically dissipating into the bed. She rolled closer to him, moving into the radiating heat of his body, trying to catch her breath. He snaked his arm across her, running his hand up and down her spine softly. She shivered at his touch, her skin still overwhelmed and sensitive.  
He listened to the sound of her breathing, wondering, trying to figure out how any of this could ever be anything but good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your messages!!! They really do mean a lot 
> 
> As a token of my gratitude, please accept this moment of almost-niceness
> 
> Cheers


	38. Chapter 38

“Are you still awake?”   
There was a thick quiet that hung in the air.   
“Yes.” 

She didn't know what to say after that. She didn't expect him to actually be up. She continued to lay on her side, her back to him as she stared at the wall. There were hundreds of things she wanted to say, but she couldn't find the words for any of them. All of her questions had become caught between her teeth.   
He moved closer to her, his hand sliding over her waist. She closed her eyes, finally settling on the most important one.  
“How much longer?”   
“How much longer until what?”  
“You said that it, whatever it is, is nearly done. How much longer?”  
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, “It depends.”  
“On what?”  
“On how quick my men are, on how many of them are there when we find them.”   
“Are where? What are you looking for?”   
She didn't dare look over at him, still trying to keep her focus on the wall ahead of her. The shadows blurred unappealingly.   
There was a hesitancy in his voice, “A base. THE base. We need to find it before we can know anything else.”  
“Is that where my siblings are?”

She sounded so young sometimes. It didn't usually grate against him as it did now. He could just barely make out the silhouette of her cheek in the dark. Sometimes he regretted letting her get involved, not keeping her like she had suggested earlier as a nice yet distant trophy. And yet, he was altogether too clever to ignore her natural aptitudes; once they had won her allegiance, there was no doubt in his mind that she would prove invaluable to the cause.   
He tried to find the right words, brushing his fingers over her, but eventually just settled on, “Yes.” He could feel her nod imperceptibly.   
“Why?”  
“Why what?”  
“Why are they there? Why are you looking for this place? Why all of this?”  
“I've already told you. They've been snatched up by your volunteers.”  
“For what? To lure me in?”  
“No, just to continue a noble legacy of murder and kidnapping.”  
“You have little right to judge on that front.”   
“At least I don't hide my crimes.”  
“So you've said before.” 

She rolled over onto her other side, facing him. He was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling with the same studious intent she had directed at the wall. She wondered what he was trying not to see.   
“Who are they? Really. No double-speak, no self-lauding, just. Who are they? What do they want?”  
He continued not to look at her, his chest rising ever so slightly with each breath he took. She had a very sudden clear understanding of just how tired this man was. The feeling gave her the intense need for a drink. He seemed to feel the same, pushing himself up off the bed in such a way to suggest his bones were made of metal and magnets. He sighed.  
“I have some bourbon hidden away somewhere, give me a moment.”

The mind is a carelessly elastic thing, and as she drank more, Violet found herself trying very hard to keep an acceptably tight grip on it. He had indeed kept some bourbon hidden in the back of a drawer (she reprimanded herself for not checking there earlier) which he manifested along with a glass. She swirled the dark brown liquor in the glass, balancing it on her knee as she sat curled on the bed. He was somewhat sprawled beside her, his weight on his elbow behind him. He took the glass from her hand.   
“But why would they keep them from contacting me?”  
He groaned, “That's just the way it is. Once you disappear for long enough, people stop looking for you, especially if you happen to be a child. Children are notoriously good at disappearing inexplicably.”   
“They can't possibly just take children with no questions asked-”  
“Oh, plenty of questions are asked, but they're all the wrong ones. They're very fond of talking in circles.”  
“You have that in common.”   
He glanced at her curtly, offended by the comment before looking away solemnly, “What can I say? One's upbringing does have an effect after all.”   
“Evidently not a terribly big one, if you're not only willing to leave it all behind, but then to incinerate the remnants.”  
“I beg to differ. Had I not known about them, I wouldn't have cared at all.”   
She took the glass back from him, “You said something about fortunes?”   
He scoffed again, “Ah yes. They do have a taste for the extravagant. You can be sure any and all of those dastardly neophytes have some sort of account in their name. Old money becomes new money becomes old money.” He looked up at her, “Make no mistake, your own fortune was more than tainted with blood.”   
She shivered but didn't respond to his comment.  
“And this base--it's the last one? Or is there a string of them, just one after another?”  
“I don’t know. There's no way for us to know until we get there. More likely than not there will be more. Although without facilities, we at least know the danger can't grow.” He took the glass back from her hands.  
She sighed, bringing her legs up to her chest, “Is there anything we do know?”  
“It's a secret society, Violet.”

“Can you guarantee the safety of my siblings?”  
He took a long drink from the glass, “I can't guarantee anything.”  
She stiffened a bit, “Well, I'm going to need you to.”  
“What possible promises can I give you? I can't see the damn future.” He proffered the bourbon again.  
She sat quietly, rolling the glass in slow circles, watching the drink tumble, “No, but it is in your best interest.”   
He looked over at her, his eyebrow cocked, “My best interest? You overestimate how much I care.”  
“No, I understand that, it's just,” she paused, staring deep into the glass, “they're kids.”  
“And? Do you think they'll be the only kids there?” He smiled a little, a dastardly smirk, “Or are you really willing to leave all the others behind so long as you get you and your own?”   
“That's not what I'm saying at all.”  
“We're more alike than you care to admit.” His teeth shone uncannily in the dark as he smiled. She looked away, “It's not the same at all.”   
“No? What wouldn't you do to get what you want?” The quiet of her thought pressed upon her like a weight. She was silent for just a moment too long. “In any case,” he continued, “it would just be a distraction in the plan. There's no need for a bunch of entitled brats beyond their bank papers.”   
“No, I know, but. Wouldn't it be to your benefit to recruit rather than ruin?”  
He regarded her amusedly, “An interesting thought. So, you're suggesting we take a group of children dedicated to the concept of false nobility and save them, so that we can do what? Train them into villainy? You do realize they are going to grow up someday and become the very people you claim to hate, right? While I don't mind the idea of fresh henchmen, are you ready to be the cause of a generation of wretchedness? How exactly does that sit in your moral code?” 

She stared down, past the sheets, past her hands, into the sinking gravity of the planet. She didn't know how it was supposed to sit. She could save them later, but she wouldn't have siblings left to save if she didn't at least get them out.   
“It goes down easier than you might think.” She looked back up at him, still looking past him, in him, through him.  
“Or, wait, let me guess--you'll adopt all of them and live with them in a seaside cottage complete with a garden?” He took the glass back from her, “And you'll have no need for any of their fortunes because you'll have given them all away to the poor, effectively ending world hunger, and it will all be so nice that nothing bad dare ever happen?” She flushed, irritated and hurt by his words but didn't say anything. “Nobility for the sake of nobility is always unrealistic.”   
“There is nothing at all to be claimed in killing children.”   
“Except for large sums of money. Kidding,” he added at her quick glare, “but only somewhat. I'm not kidding, actually. It is quite a substantial gain.”   
“Yes well, I don't see why anyone has to die, really. I think you just want to take the coward's way out.”   
He frowned, “The coward’s way out? Mass murder?” 

“There is no reason for anyone to die other than the fact that you disagree with them.”  
“My Dear,” his voice was patronizing, “that's the oldest reason in the book. And besides, we've already covered that there is indeed a reason for killing them, and that reason is money.”   
“That can't be all. As much as it pains me to say it, I know you're cleverer than that. There are other ways for you to ruin yourself morally without having to kill.”  
“Would you rather I divorced you and married each of them one by one?” There was a condescending tone in his voice, “The real villainy--a lack of prenups.”   
She felt her gut clench, “If you wanted to set me free, I wouldn't fight.” She hoped her tone was suitably light.  
He scoffed, “Please, till death do us part. The only way you're getting out is when I kill you.”   
“Unless I kill you first.”   
He smirked, placing the glass back in her open hand, “I've seen you try. I'm not too impressed.” She had no idea who sat in the wrong versus right in the whole affair, but perhaps, just perhaps, if she could save a few innocent kids along with her siblings, perhaps it would be enough to undo all off the terrible things she had already done. Perhaps it would be enough to balance her out in the eyes of the universe.   
“Besides,” he interrupted her thoughts, “the moment you realized one of those brats was prettier than you, you'd drop all of your so-called noble ideals.” He lay down, beckoning her to follow him. She stared at him, not moving, crinkling her nose in disgust.  
“You can't possibly be that pretentious.”  
“What part of that was pretentious?”  
“You think that I would let children die rather than risk, what? Losing you? Something tells me I’d survive.”  
“Oh would you?” He smiled, amused, like he had just heard some fantastic joke. “You wouldn't mind if I started flirting with some pretty girls who didn't want me dead?”   
“I'm fairly certain that wanting you dead is just a natural part of speaking to you, so…”  
“Come now. There's no need to mask your jealousy with cruelty.”  
“I… don't even know where to start with that.”  
“Admit it. You don't actually hate being my little wife.”   
“I definitely hate the fact that you just said that.”   
“Come here, my ever sweet Countess,” he grabbed her arm, pulling her down. She drained her glass quickly, placing it to the side, allowing him to move her. She only had to stay in his favor for a little while longer.   
Her head leaned against him, her eyes closed.  
He exhaled a slow, tired sigh, his fingers only somewhat touching her, leaving wispy grazes against her skin.   
She lay against his shoulder, the soft sound of his breathing the only noise in the house. She tried to close her eyes, but she kept imagining the smell of the liquor as the faintly metallic scent of blood.


	39. Chapter 39

The clock had been taunting her lately. Logically she knew that time was passing, however slow it insisted upon doing it, but illogically? She had spent eternities in a single Tuesday afternoon.   
She rearranged the wine bottles again, secretly hoping to find something above 40 proof tucked away. As usually, the liquor stubbornly refused to materialize. She sighed, closing the cabinet, and wondered how long it would take to re-alphabetize the small collection of books she had acquired.  
She hardly knew what to do with herself anymore. Uselessness is the worst feeling in the world, particularly if the thing you're waiting for is what you may hope to be the most exciting event in your life. After this, she sincerely hoped she would be blessed with a boring existence. Despite the seemingly endless supply of dishes to be washed, she discovered entirely too quickly that there was, in fact, an end to the line. She had shut herself up in her room trying to read, but the letters had turned to alphabet soup before her eyes, and she found herself staring at the same page for the better part of an hour. She couldn't even focus her attention on trying to build something; all of her thoughts were preoccupied with time travel. Of course she had to get caught up as soon as things got boring. She tried to hide her anxiety, tried not to make it any more palpable than it already was, but it was hard to hide her irritation at waiting. She curled up into a chair, feeling rather silly as she opened the book in her hands, knowing that she'd have no more luck with it than she’d had with any other one before. 

He walked in and immediately frowned.  
“That's my seat.”   
She looked up like she was in the perfect mood to pick a fight. He didn't say anything, cocking his eyebrow and staring her down, hoping she would move. She folded the book closed in her lap.   
“You weren't using it.”   
“I don't have to argue with you over my own chair.”   
“Good, I was hoping you wouldn't.” She reopened her book. He strode over quickly, lifting her up rather callously beneath the arms, depositing her on the couch. She struggled against him indignantly, pissed.  
He took her spot, over-exaggerating the stretch of his legs as he reclined into the chair, “It isn't my fault you're bored--find something to do besides aggravating me to entertain yourself.”   
“There's no reason for you to be so exceptionally rude.”  
“Nothing but the best for you.”  
She scoffed, straightening her skirt around herself irately, “I thought you liked me in your chair or something.”  
“Only when I'm not using it.” He glanced over at her, “Why, were you trying to seduce me?”   
“No! Not everything I do has to be about you.”  
“Okay then, why don't you prove it by leaving me alone?” 

“You're the one who started it.”  
“Yes, that is very mature.”  
She didn't bother replying, feeling that anything she said would only negate the intent behind it. Instead, she sat quietly, staring at the closed book in her lap until she felt like she might burst. She looked up at him. He continued to ignore her. She broke the silence, throwing herself backwards into the couch in a huff.  
“I can't handle the waiting. How do you do this?”   
He looked so tired as he massaged his eyes, “You need patience, my Dear.”   
“You're the least patient person I know, how do you do it?”   
“Distractions. Plenty of distractions.”  
“Such as?”  
He smirked, “You, for starters. It's hard to stay focused on anything with you around.”   
“What's that supposed to mean?”  
“Only that you never stop talking.” She glared at him coldly, but only succeeded in making him laugh at her. “Oh stop it, it's hardly my fault. Here, what book do you have now? Read me some of it.”   
She clicked her tongue looking away, “Never mind, you're of no help.”  
“No, I'm serious. Read it to me.” He settled back in his chair, closing his eyes. She raised an eyebrow.  
“Since when do you care about books?”  
“Look, you want something to do, and I am really not in the mood to fight, so unless you feel like making yourself useful, I have nothing left to offer you.”   
Whether it was out of fear of annoying him further, or perhaps a desire to actually do something, she opened the book, and in a slow, even tone, began to read.  
“On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged…”

He closed his eyes, listening to her read. He didn't care about the words so much as her voice. It was nice to hear it not frantic nor disparaging for once.   
He sank beneath the words, beneath the meaning, until she was a dull hum in the background of his consciousness.   
She was so ready to hurry the time along. He wondered if this would be the last of it, if after this she would leave. What motive could she have for staying? She didn't particularly like him, and once she didn't need him, what was there to keep her? He thought about it, tried to picture her future, tried to picture her with a life that didn't include him. He got as far as imagining her taking a fancy to one of her coworkers at some nameless shop before he got too angry to continue. He opened his eyes again, looking at her.   
She had caught a lock of hair between her fingers and was twisting it absentmindedly. He watched her fingers, moving round, round, gently folding it in half, then twisting round again. He wondered what would have happened to her if he hadn't found her. Probably something boring. She would have been wasted to a boring life--everything about her so perfectly suited treachery. He stood, crossing over to her in one easy step before taking her face in his hands, kissing her in a way he hoped would dissolve the “what-ifs.” She hummed a muffled sound that no doubt would have been something along the lines of “what?” had he not been keeping her lips otherwise occupied.   
He pulled back, his breath a little heavy as he sighed, the sound curling out from behind a self-satisfied smile. She looked up at him, surprise and confusion on her face.   
“We haven't even gotten to the good part yet,” she held the book up in her hands.   
“Then by all means, continue.”   
She cleared her throat as he lay down, reclining so that his head was in her lap. He shut his eyes again as she continued, shifting her legs ever so slightly to accommodate him. 

She wondered how unfair life had to be, to give her moments as nice as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my Heathens!  
> My schedule has been spotty-at-best lately, and while I know y'all don't have much choice but to hang in, I still wanna give you a small thanks for doing so. I have such big plans, that I am SO impatient to let y'all in on, but we'll just have to wait together. 
> 
> Thanks, my darlings  
> Cheers


	40. Chapter 40

She stared at the row of cans lining the shelf, unable to force herself to have an opinion either way about which ones she should buy. The labels faced perfectly outward, each of them depicting perfect smiling families in various tableaus of merriment and rosy cheeks. She grabbed the one closest to herself, tucking it into the basket ambivalently. It was becoming harder and harder to care; she used to throw herself into the cooking, used to make herself focus on doing it right so that she didn't have time to think about anything else, but now? Now she simply didn't have the energy to care anymore. Not that she had the luxury of not caring; now more than ever she had to prove her worth. She picked up a jar of preservatives inoffensively decorated with a nice picture of ripe fruit before heading towards the front of the store.   
She didn't mind grocery shopping. In fact, it was a task she rather enjoyed; she liked the freedom of leaving the house on her own, of walking about unsupervised. Granted, if she took more than a minute longer than expected, it would all go to hell, but she had managed to get the timing of it all down to a science. She enjoyed the clean cold of the store, the ugly pallid tile floors, the reverberating click of her heels down the aisle. She liked the fact that it never changed--everything always stayed in its place. The magazines along the checkout promised technicolor scandals and other similarly charged celebrity disasters. She stared at the covers, feeling something close to pity for an unidentifiable woman, caught at the exact wrong angle in a photo used as the hook for a story about adultery within another unbreakable power couple. She placed an exact amount of change in the cashier’s hand, gathered her bags, and left. She never spoke the employees; their full-toothed smiles and “how are yous” upset her unreasonably. She found herself jealous of them, of their simple jobs with simple words, surrounded by the clink of coins and scent of fresh bread--she couldn't stand it. 

The air outside tentatively brushed against her face, an undercurrent of warmth to it, like the impending spring was a secret it was trying very hard, futilely, to keep. She readjusted the bag over her shoulder, ignoring the shining things in the windows she passed. It was only a ten minute walk back. Not bad, she thought to herself as she glanced at a large clock beside a pair of benches, she would have a few minutes to spare. Two teenagers fell laughing upon one of the benches, only stopping long enough to share an inappropriately enthusiastic kiss. She saw the girl’s knees shift beneath her skirt, the flush of her cheeks framing a perfectly bright smile. The boy leaned in close, touching his cheek to hers, whispering. She giggled again, her thin fingers covering her lips. Violet wondered how old they were; probably no more than herself. The boy leaned back, brushing a lock of blonde hair away from the girl’s face. She took his hand and they left, arms locked so that they had to stand very close. Violet realized she had been staring and, shaking her head, hurried along, a feeling she couldn't quite identify hanging in her gut. She recalled the bright mischievousness in the boy’s eye, and felt an intense jealousy of the blonde girl. Not that she particularly wanted this random teenager, but it would have been nice to have everything be so uncomplicated. She wondered if she would ever have someone like her in so frivolous a way. She supposed not; light things are not meant for people like her.   
She slowed down in front of the liquor store, staring forlornly in for a moment before continuing on her path, only to find herself very much distracted by the window beside it. Her reflection stared back, as pallid and strict as ever. She wondered what she would look like as a blonde. Her features were too stern for it, no doubt. If a pretty face was going to be her only hope of survival, then she had a lot of work to do.  
She gazed past her reflection, into the shop, into the lines of nice things and smiling employees.   
The bell hanging above the door made a nice ringing sound when she opened it. 

Her heart pounded against the inside of her ribs as she reentered the house, slipping through the back door, a box clutched tightly to her chest. She felt silly, outlandishly so, but it was also somewhat enthralling to have a secret, however temporary it may be.   
She shut the door to her side room quietly, making sure it was completely shut before opening the lid. If she had felt ridiculous in the shop, it was only amplified by privacy. It was ridiculous; this was ridiculous. But still, the asknowledgent couldn't do anything to dispel the smug pride she felt.   
She folded the tissue back over, re-covering the box. She'd wait for the right moment. It seemed a bit traitorous to the legacy of women everywhere to debase herself to simple materialism, but if everyone in her way was willing to overlook her brains in lieu of her face, then she wasn't going to do anything to stop them. They could underestimate her all they wanted, but she'd make it to the end, she'd make sure of that.   
Pretty and useful. She'd make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXCITING NEWS. (Well, at any rate, I'm excited about it, and I hope you will be, so...) 
> 
> We are nearing the homestretch, and, as I am wont to do, I /just/ can't squeeze everything in. Which means. This shitty "should have been 500 words" fic is now a trilogy. Fuck.
> 
> But wait- there's more. 
> 
> So. I am going to be taking a short break between fics, just taking the time to maneuver through life as it is. HOWEVER, fret not, as we speak I am creating some /enlightening/ content for y'all.   
> "Ourlittlesecretokay, what the hell does that mean?"   
> It means that I've got a bonus short-story that I'm going to squeeze between NMNL and the yet-to-be-released book 3. A book 2.5 if you will. It's only going to be a shadow of the length of the others, but it's a story I've been working on since Here, so. It should be good. At the very least, it should be interesting.
> 
> Cheers!


	41. Chapter 41

The house was so painfully large. Had she ever noticed how big it was before? She had no idea what to do in all of that space; it made her feel nervous. She sat outside in the remnants of the garden, only a few willful plants remembering to bloom. She was sitting on the ground, pulling up bits of grass with her hands. The quick tearing sensation it gave somewhat satisfied her nervousness.   
She rolled a blade between her fingers, examining the green smudge it left on her skin. She stared up at the sky. It was too big, unfairly big, and altogether too blue. She looked away again, not wanting to see it. She was in a bad enough mood as it was without the sky interfering. Although, “bad” wasn't really the right word. Dismal. Scared. Dismal because she was scared. She tore up another blade of grass.   
Her heart ached at the distance between herself and her siblings. Would they be alright? Would she be alright? She had to get to them, to get them far away from all of this, but then what? Was she really the person to be taking them? She had a creeping suspicion that she was nowhere NEAR the moral aptitude required to decide what was right. Didn't it mean something that they disagreed so throughly with Olaf, a man she considered the peak of wretchedness? What if she was taking them from the only good they might have? Was it selfish to think she was their best option? What if she wasn't the best caregiver, what if this secretive group of volunteers really could offer them a better future than her? Was it worth it if they were forever separated? Moreover, did keeping themselves together justify jeopardizing their potential future? She had just assumed that what she wanted was what was best for them.  
She stood up, brushing the dirt off her knees, every inch of her aching in a frustratingly empty way. She hated how nice it was outside, how much this place felt like home. She felt that she had earned the right to be unapologetically miserable. 

Her face was pinched in frustration when she walked back inside, looking more than a bit despondent. He glanced away, pretending he hadn't noticed. She sat down in a huff, slouching over in a less-than-ladylike way, rattling her fingers against the table.   
“Need something?”

She jumped, startled. She hadn't realized he was there. Embarrassed, she brushed her hair back behind her ear, looking away again. He smirked, amused.  
“What's got you so upset?”  
“I’m not upset.”   
“You're upset.”

He stood up, striding over to her. She didn't move, refusing to watch him. He stopped behind her, slipping his hands over her, rubbing her shoulders. She sighed, relaxing her muscles.   
“You insult me, Darling. You're not as sneaky as you might believe.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. She craned her neck ever so slightly, just enough to better accommodate him. He smiled. Her hand lifted to his cheek, her fingers grazing against him ever so slightly. She sighed again.  
“How are you able to always be so sure of everything?”   
He paused, taken aback for a moment, but then continued as if unphased, “That's easy. I'm a very clever man.”  
“I'm serious.”  
“As am I. I know what I want, and I know what I’m willing to do to get it.”  
“What if you don't know what you want?”  
“That’s just ridiculous. You should always know what you want.” He wondered what they were talking about, feeling a foreboding sense of nervousness. He slipped his fingers beneath the collar of her dress, continuing to rub her shoulders. Was she talking about him? He felt an unusual excitement at the thought. Did she not want to want him? Or did she want to not want to want him? He shook his head, feeling ridiculous at getting so caught up in another's opinion. Still, it wouldn't hurt to work it in his favor. “Even if something's not what you expected to want, you should still follow it. Don't let fear of greed ever stand in your way.”

“No, it's not like that, it's-” she paused, thinking, “I know what I want, but I don't know if my wants contradict one another or not.”   
“Well that's stupid. There's no limit, Darling. Have it all.”   
“I don't think you understand.”   
“I don't think you understand. Being married to a powerful man opens a lot of doors for you.”

He hoped he was being discreet, nudging her in the right direction. Although, what did he care if she wanted him? He hesitated at the thought. She was nothing to him, a simple matter of convenience, a tool. He couldn't afford to care about her. He wanted not to care about her.  
He sighed, cocking his eyebrow, “I am more than an expert in the subject. I always get what I want.”

His grip tightened. She winced slightly.  
“Yes, well, not all of us are so fortunate.” Her gut tied itself in knots. What if she made the wrong choice? What if she led them to a worser fate, either at her own hands or another's? She felt very suddenly like she was going to be sick. She closed her eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the infinite disappointment her parents must be looking down on her with. Her parents. They would want her to keep them together. Although, she reminded herself, her siblings were with the people her parents associated with and presumably trusted. No doubt they hadn't planned on her falling into a life of treachery or they would have never left her in charge.

She stood up quickly, almost knocking him back in her haste.   
“I’m sorry, I-” she didn't finish her sentence, deathly pale and trembling as she tried to walk past him. He caught her by the upper arm, studying her inquisitively.  
When she finally met his eyes, hers were glassed over, threatening to fill with tears. He felt a jolt of revolted panic. And then, just as quickly, she was weeping, her face in her hands, crying loud and unimpeded tears. Cautiously, he let go of her. She stepped into his incidentally open arms, the tears still streaming. She buried her face against him, and he caught himself hoping she wouldn't stain his jacket. 

His thin arms tentatively closed around her. She wanted to disappear, to evaporate into quiet stillness. She tried to steady her breathing, embarrassed, but he wasn't saying anything, just allowing her to cry, and she so desperately needed to cry. She hated crying, hated being reminded of what it felt like being so utterly weak. She tried to stop, but only succeeded in swallowing down air in the least dignified way possible.   
She grieved her shattered heart, broken home, ruined future. She knew what was right, and she hated it, absolutely hated it. Of course being kept from her family was the right thing for them; she had nothing to offer but apologies. They would never thrive in a life over-shadowed by her irredeemablility. Of course them never speaking to her again was the right thing; the less influence she had, the better.   
He rubbed his thumb against her, not saying anything, and for just a moment she felt relatively safe. Even though she knew she wasn't safe, she felt safe, and that was more than enough. There was an unnamed comfort in his embrace, like no matter the wickedness of the world, none of it could step any closer than he already had. He may be wretched, but he was a wretchedness she knew and found a home in. She wasn't alone in her exile, and for right now, that would have to be enough.   
She took a few deep breaths, finally removing her hands from her face, resting her head against him. She was relatively surprised he hadn't left. It was… nice. Seeing as niceness wasn’t exactly one of his more abundant characteristics, it was strange, but she wasn't going to question it. She softly gripped his lapel, taking deep breaths in, not ready to move yet. He didn't try to push her off, he just stayed, his arms across her, not bothering to say anything at all.   
“I'm sorry,” she whispered eventually, still not looking up. He rested his head against hers in a way that only gave the barest suggestion of a kiss, and she felt her heart sink within her. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want for this all to be over. If she has to trade her family for this, she wanted to take every small moment she could get. She didn't want to do anything that involved moving from this moment in time. With a dreadful pang, she realized just how much she cared, just how deeply and horribly. 

He wrapped his arms tighter around her, holding her to his chest, trying to muffle the loud clanging of his heartbeat, hoping she couldn't hear it. He didn't need this. She was so clingy, so needy. He didn't have time for that. He dusted his fingers back and forth across her in a way he hoped was soothing.   
He closed his eyes, his lips still pressed to the top of her head. He took a slow breath in, relishing the clean scent of her hair. She had brought the scent of the outdoors in with her, in addition to her usual not-unpleasant scent of freshly dug earth and lemons. She pulled back self-consciously, not meeting his gaze.   
She wasn't a particularly attractive cryer--it made her eyes red and her face flush. Nonetheless, he tilted her chin up, kissing her on the lips. She tasted like salt. 

She felt her heart flutter as she lifted her hands to his wrists, trying to hold him in place. She needed everything to slow down, to just stop for a bit so that she could enjoy it. She sighed as she broke the kiss, turning her face away.  
“I'm sorry, I'm sure I look like a mess.”   
“You are an example to the masses. Although, you do have some dirt on your cheek.” She flushed, embarrassed, swiping at it with the back of her hands, only now remembering that she hadn't washed them since coming in. He caught her wrist, “No no, it suits you.”  
“Real funny,” she said, turning away.  
“It's becoming.” He wrapped his arms around her, resting his hands behind her waist, “I like my women relatively competent.”

She smiled despite herself at that, and he felt proud to have made her almost laugh. He pulled her back up into a kiss, sighing contentedly against her. She caught his hand in her own again, holding it gently as he cradled her cheek. Her hands were careful for all their roughness, a slight tremble only somewhat detectable. They were so small, so unexpectedly delicate, as if they were made with hollow bone.  
“Whatever it is that you want,” he broke the silence gently, “I’ll get it for you. You can have it all.”  
She smirked, “Oh really? And what if I had been after wealth? Would you really have been so willing to share?”  
He shrugged, “There's plenty of wealth in the world. We would just need to take so much that it would be impossible for me to notice any of it going missing.” She laughed again and his heart clenched. “Is that what you want? I can do that for you.”  
“No, that's not what I want.”  
“Then what do you want?” 

There are perhaps an infinite amount of ways to say “I want you.” She hadn't the opportunity to choose any of them though, being quite rudely interrupted by the slamming of a door as the man with half an ear ran into the room.   
“We’ve found it.”   
Olaf dropped his hands from hers, a gleeful smile creeping across his face, leaving her forgotten to dissipate into the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my own heart with this chapter, which makes it one of my favorites.
> 
> Cheers


	42. Chapter 42

An unplaceable sadness permeated her, swelling within her. She hated it, hated its effect, its existence, its implications.   
She had tried to follow him, but he’d held his hand up, stopping her, closing the door after himself. Now she waited. She wasn’t a stranger to waiting, but it only ever seemed to get harder the more often she had to do it. Normally she wouldn't have listened, would have followed anyway just far enough behind to not get caught, but even she knew this time was different.  
She paced the room, occasionally trying to hear their whispered voices, but was unable to catch anything at all. She had tried not to be offended at his keeping her away, but she the longer she waited, the greater her resentment and trepidation grew. She couldn't even hear the sound of their whispers anymore. The bottle of wine she had lifted from the kitchen was already half-empty, and the more she stared at it, the worse her anxiety became. Her back was to the door, her head fruitlessly resting against the wood to better her espionage.   
It had been too long. Why hadn't he come back? Something must be horribly wrong if he hadn’t even bothered finding her to gloat. Slowly, somewhat emboldened by the drink, she cracked the door open, peering out. They weren't in the foyer.   
She stood up, stepping out hesitantly, waiting for him to appear and reprimand her. The house was quiet. Why didn't he want her to hear what they had to say? She had a right to know. She strained to hear, even her own breath rattlingly loud against the quiet. There was a shuffling coming from upstairs, and so, cautiously, slowly, she made her way up.   
The hallway was empty. She gripped the wine bottle she had forgotten she was holding tightly as she walked towards the sound. She tried to muffle her steps, not sure what she ought to expect. There were no voices, just a cacophony of movement. The door to the bedroom was only slightly ajar, a strip of yellow light pouring out from inside. Through the crack she could see him frantically rifling through drawers, tossing things onto the bed. Gently, she pushed the door open just enough to slip in. He glanced over his shoulder at her flittingly, not pausing in his work. She cleared her throat.  
“Where's your man?”   
“He left already.”  
“Oh,” she was surprised, “I must have just missed him.”  
“He left a quarter of an hour ago.”  
“Oh...Okay.”   
He moved some more things to the bed before looking back over at her. He smirked, walking towards her, a sudden spark in his eye.   
He lifted the wine bottle out of her hands, turning away from her as he did so.  
“Where have you been? We need to pack.”   
She shifted her weight awkwardly, feeling rather sore, “In the dining room--you told me to stay in the dining room. I was wondering when you were going to come back for me. I figured, since you hadn't yet, you were still talking, so...”   
He paused, thinking, “Oh, yes. I must have forgotten. Here, make yourself useful and help me.” Callously, he tossed a bundle in her direction then went back to his work. The inside of her chest punctured as she caught it. She looked away, trying to find an inoffensive spot on the wall to fixate on.  
“What are we packing for?”   
He took a deep swig of the wine, turning back towards her with a fearfully toothy smile, “Only the culmination of my life’s work, Dearest. You really must learn to keep up.” She ran a hand over the pile of clothes in her arms.  
“So-”  
“Yes, yes.” He threw his hands in the air looking at the clutter that surrounded himself, “And I really don't have time for idle chat right now, so please. Get to work.”   
She wasn't sure what exactly it was that she ought to be doing, so she busied herself by folding the items he has thrown onto the bed. 

“When are we leaving?”   
She was just full of stupid questions tonight, apparently unable to reason through anything anymore. His own thoughts were scattered, racing in every direction.   
“As soon as we possibly can. If not tonight, tomorrow morning.” She was quiet after that, her brow furrowed in thought. If she kept that up, she'd have wrinkles by 20. Her jaw was clenched tight, no doubt from the effort of restraining so many stupid questions. She had an insatiable need to know things. It was one of her worst qualities. It was also one of the many reasons why he shouldn't care about her--why he didn't care about her. He didn't care about her. He didn't.  
He braced his arms against the desk, his eyes shut tight. He was almost there. He had almost made it. He took another swig of wine then went over to the closet, pulling out her clothes. Hell knew she wouldn't be able to do it herself. She frowned at his choices but didn't say anything. Good. Perhaps she was finally learning. 

She watched him as he made himself into a hurricane, throwing item after item at her. Luckily he treated his knife collection with more respect, and so his choices in weaponry were gently placed on the bed. She didn't think she'd ever seen him so careful with anything. “This is silly,” she chided herself, “you can't be jealous of a knife,” but the feeling obstinately remained. Why was every choice she made a bad one?   
He threw a suitcase onto the bed, almost hitting her, not that he noticed. She felt the familiar warm feeling of anger rising inside her, but she couldn't exactly place the reason why. He had always been a heinous idiot; why would it be any different now? Why should he care that this might possibly be the end, not just of his stupid scheme, but of their lives as they were? Had the thought honestly never occurred to him? It wouldn't surprise her; he was the most egocentric man she had ever met. She'd be lucky to make his third or fourth priority, and as his impatient avarice grew, she could feel herself slip further and further down the list. She was a fool to think that she could force him to care about her.  
She turned away, tight lipped. No need to get too worried; she had her backup plan after all. She would make herself a priority, or at least an interest, by the end of the night. They'd see how easy it was for him to forget her then.

He watched her, working swiftly, her thin hands packing item after item at a rapid pace. He was almost there. After this, there would be no way for her to discount him; she'd finally see him for the extraordinarily powerful man he was. Not that he wanted her respect, but it was always good for your subordinates to know their place.   
He didn't need her respect. And even if he did, he didn't want it. He didn't care at all. Her face was set in grim determination. It was a good look on her. He slid his hand up her arm, planting a sultry kiss on her neck.   
“You are about to become a very powerful woman by proximity.” He kept his voice low. She hummed a noncommittal response. “How does it feel to be so close to greatness?”  
“Oh, I'm nothing short of inspired.”  
He'd take care of that sarcasm soon enough. He smiled again, standing behind her, placing another kiss on the back of her neck. No, it wouldn't be long now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank-you to all of the amazing artists who have been gracing us with their talent. Seriously, if you haven't looked at the blog yet, you are missing out: ourlittlesecretokay.tumblr.com --it's a cacophony of questions and submissions and a whole lot of neat stuff. 
> 
> Secondly, I really really want to thank y'all for your comments. I know I say it often, but I really need y'all to know how important they are to me. It's absolutely wild that people are reading this at all, let alone interacting with it, and every time I get a notification I just about die. You guys are wonderful and I love you, even if you are heathens.
> 
> Also, this next chapter is a doozy. Good luck.
> 
> Cheers


	43. Chapter 43

He sat in his chair in the foyer, nursing the end of the bottle of wine. He had left Violet to finish the packing at her own insistence, only the last bits needing to be put in place for it all to be done. He would literally kill for some whisky right now, but he had to work with what he had. He sighed, rubbing his eyes, both restless and exhausted. He hated waiting, always had. He was so ready for it to be over. The door to the kitchen opened and she stepped out lightly, almost hesitantly. He took another drink.  
“I thought you were still working.”   
“I finished.” She held her elbow, skirting her gaze around. She was nervous. He wondered if she knew exactly how easy she was to read, and whether that nervousness ought to scare him.   
“All of it?”  
“Yes.”  
He leaned back, his arm resting on the back of the chair.  
“Here, come here.”   
She stepped closer shyly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. He gestured her forward again dramatically, “Come on.” She walked over slowly until she was close enough that he could catch her arm, pulling her towards himself. She stood between his knees, fidgety, almost restless. He cocked his eyebrow.   
“What's your deal? You're acting weird.”   
“No deal, I just- I got something for you.”   
“Oh yes, my darling Countess?” He couldn't hide the surprise from his voice. Now he was intrigued. “And to what do I owe the honor?”   
She shrugged, bringing her warm palms to rest delicately against the sides of his face, “Just thought you would like it.”  
He smiled devilishly, lifting one hand to trace his fingers across the back of her leg, “Alright, I’m suspicious yet curious. What is it?”   
She brought her hands down so that her wrists rested behind his neck, a strawberry flush spreading across her nose.   
“No, you have to unwrap it.”   
He looked up at her incredulously, “You got me an actual present? Wrapping paper and all?”  
“Not exactly.” She shifted her weight anxiously.  
“Alright, now I'm just suspicious. Am I going to regret this gift? It's not another murder attempt is it?”   
She sighed dramatically, “No, no it's not. It's good, it's- you'll like it.”   
“Then where is it?”   
She looked down at him despairingly, “You're such a man.”   
“Oh yes, am I?” He pinched the back of her leg for that insolence, and she yelped, scooting closer to him to evade his hand. Softly, she brought her knee up on the couch beside him, and then slid onto his lap, straddling him. He smiled, pleased at the direction this was heading. His hand moved to her waist, pulling her hips against his.   
He skirted his fingers across her teasingly. She fidgeted some more, obviously anxious. It would be adorable if not for the seemingly unnoticed pressure she kept putting on his crotch.  
He smiled stiffly, cocking his head to the side, “So what's got you so nervous?”  
“Why so many questions?”  
“If that's what it’s going to take to get to the bottom of all of this nonsense, then why not?”  
She looked annoyed at his words, but didn't move, “It's not nonsense. You're being a jerk; there's no rule that says I have to give you your gift, you know.”   
“Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Although, if you're looking to do that now, you probably shouldn't be moving so goddamn much. It's distracting to say the least.”  
He couldn't tell if the look she gave him was genuine innocence or just a cruel act, “This is distracting?”   
He cocked his eyebrow, “You aren't distracted?”  
“By what?”   
He fought to maintain his composure, looking over her body, sliding his free hand to grip her waist, “By this.” He rolled his hips forward, enjoying the warm pressure it produced.   
She clenched her jaw ever so slightly, tilting her head to the side, “That’s distracting? You're simpler than I thought.”   
“I take offense to that.”   
“No, I mean, if I knew you found…this… that distracting, I wouldn't have even bothered with your gift.”  
“Which, by the way, you still haven't gotten to.”   
“No, I've changed my mind, this is it now. Surprise.” He could have killed her for the smirk on her face, but then she was reaching for his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt. As much as he willed it not to, he could feel an erection swell as she moved against him again.  
He growled, “Now you're just being a brat.”  
She looked up at him from under her dark eyelashes, “Is that any way to talk to your wife?”  
“My apologies; you're being a brat, Dearest.”   
“Come now, patience is a virtue. We'll get to your gift soon enough.” She finished with his shirt, pulling it over his shoulders.   
He smirked up at her, trying desperately to maintain control, “Oh yes?”   
“Any moment now, in fact. It's actually up to you when we do,” she trailed her hands down his chest. He looked at her, straddled across him, a blush settling across her nose.  
He smiled hungrily, “It can wait. Now be a good little wife and come kiss me.” 

She leaned down, her arms resting on his shoulders again, enjoying the feeling of his hands gripping her. There was also a certain sense of pride at being able to arouse him so easily; maybe she didn't need to worry about boring him after all. If after a year of sleeping together, he still got excited by her touching him, then maybe there was hope yet. She rolled her hips forward, testing the waters, and he groaned against her teeth.   
“Fuck, Violet. What am I going to do with you?”   
She didn't answer, buzzing at his exuberant reaction. His hands slid down to her knees, and then, pushing under the fabric of her dress, began to make their way back up her thighs. She shifted nervously, and he let out a gravelly moan.   
“Are you trying to kill me? Actually, no, don't answer that. Although,” he leaned back, devouring her with his eyes, “if you were going to kill me, this is how I would want to go.” She flushed, embarrassed, looking away. 

She trailed her hands down his chest until she was unbuckling his belt, tugging open the close of his pants. He sighed at the relief and then groaned again as she moved closer to him, flooding him with sensation. His hands continued on their path up her thighs, aching to take in every inch of her skin. He reached the top of her legs, darting his fingers across her hips before pausing. 

It might have been the first time she ever saw him blush. He gripped the fabric of her dress tightly in his hands, pulling it up and over her head swifter than was strictly necessary. She helped him, trying to keep herself from getting tangled. She dropped the dress on the floor, turning back to him with a half shrug.   
She leaned in close, kissing him again, her voice tucked behind a sly smile, “Surprise...”

This was it. This was the moment he died. He ran his fingers across her body, feeling the tactile sensation of the lace beneath his hands. She was all lace and skin, so much skin. She shivered, moving into his touch, looping her arms around his neck again. 

He looked up at her, surprise still lingering in his eyes, “What the hell did I do to make this happen?” She shrugged, embarrassed by his response. “Violet.” She looked at him, his face regaining its usual pallor, “I need to know exactly what I did so I can make sure this continues to happen.”  
She smirked down at him in a nervously cocky way, “Are you sure that wouldn't get awfully monotonous?” 

“There is NOTHING about you in indecent amounts of clothing that could EVER be boring.”   
She actually smiled at his words before leaning down to kiss him again. He gripped her tightly in his arms, encircling her completely, drunk off of her. This was it, this was almost everything he could ever hope for. He kissed his way down her neck, cupping her breast in his eager hand, delighted at the way she moaned. He did not understand what she was trying to do, but he wasn't going to question it. Whatever she wanted, she could have it, if only she promised to stay right here forever. She scooted closer, pressing herself to him, and the friction it generated made his bones ache with desire. He held her hips down, pulling her back into a kiss. She was so small, so perfectly transportable, but she had just enough weight to make his tented crotch strain wantingly at the feeling of her. He moaned into her open mouth as he rocked his erection against her, grinding it into her leg. She was evidently fixated on destroying him, but she was a beautiful death, he had to give her that.   
He leaned forward, his hands exploring her frame, kissing purple bruises along her chest before taking her breast into his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as he ran his tongue over the warm, soft skin. He shifted her legs so he could press his now incredibly hard erection against the lace between her legs, and she moaned, the sound reverberating inside his chest.   
“Shit, Olaf.” Her voice was a sigh, escaping under the cover of a moan. He pressed a kiss to her sternum and she leaned back, moving to accommodate him. He looked up at her and her eyes were larger than he remembered, her lips pink and glistening. She shifted, self-conscious under his gaze. He slid his hands from her hips to her lower back, rolling her forward towards himself again, grinding his arousal against her. She bit her lip, letting out a moan at the sensation.   
He grabbed her wrists from behind his neck, holding her hands in the space between them. She looked at him, surprised, somewhat taken aback.  
“Listen, Violet, this is very important. If I don't get to fuck you right now, I might actually die.”   
She smirked in a self-satisfied way, moving in to kiss him again.  
“I think I can arrange something.” The whispered tone she used sent shivers down his spine.   
She moved back, slipping off of him until she was standing. He let go of her wrists, his hands dancing to her waist as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her abdomen. She looped her arms back around his shoulders. His hands slid down to her hips, his thumbs tucking beneath the lace, and then he was gliding the slip of cloth down her legs, joining it with the dress on the floor. He leaned back, devouring her form with his eyes.   
“You know, as exquisite as that is, I much prefer it off of you.”  
She smiled knowingly, and then pushed him gently until he was leaning back, gripping the back of the couch, watching her. She pulled his pants down over his hips, tucking her fingers into the elastic of his briefs until her hands were moving over his erection, graciously warm and soft in their touch. He grit his teeth. She kept her hand on his groin, her lithe fingers practically murderous in their kind attention. She leaned forward, bracing her arm on his shoulder again, and then she was on top of him, pressing herself to his chest, her open lips inviting his tongue into her mouth. She moved down slowly, easing his stiff cock inside herself. She groaned at his hard presence, and the vibrations tingled across his whole body. She moved her hips slowly, moaning quietly with each small thrust. His fingers dug into her, holding her against himself.   
He gave her a moment, then began to move faster, less carefully. While he did enjoy her frailty, she was still sturdy enough to be fun. He glanced up at her, making sure he wasn't hurting her. Her face was a picture of concentration, her lip caught between her teeth. He held her waist, moving her to his own rhythm. She let him, her pink lips parting adorably into a gasp at the sudden additional length as he pulled her down, pushing himself all the way inside her.  
“There you go,” he whispered the words softly. She gripped his shoulders tightly, a quiet sound escaping her as he gave another deep thrust. “See, I know what I’m doing,” he smiled proudly. She met his gaze and her eyes were a soft, watery brown that could have killed him. Her lips stayed open but she said nothing in reply, save for the occasional gasps she gave as he rocked into her. He looked up at her, adoring every bit of her body as he bounced her on his lap, her wonderful thighs pressing against him. True, he had a preference for when she was beneath him, unable to move save to get closer to him, but what he loved absolutely most was her naive surrenderance, the way she was nothing but absolute in her actions. She cried out, arching against him.  
This--this was almost everything he wanted. He wanted her, but he wanted her to be his. He wanted her to want to be his, to look at him with adoration, with respect, with desire, to need him the same way he needed her; the way fire needed kindling and arsonists needed fire. 

She kept her arms wrapped around him, her chest burning with pride as he clutched at her back, holding her against himself. He thrusted into her, moaning against her bare skin. It was all going perfectly according to plan. There was no way he could be bored with her now, not after this. And though she knew it wouldn't have mattered who was under the lace, she couldn't help but feel proud knowing it was her who had reduced him to such a state of need. She was his, and there seemed to be nothing that would change that.   
His grip tightened as his breathing became more ragged. She could feel the marks already forming against her skin. He pounded against her, edging closer to orgasm, thrusting himself into her. She gasped with each stroke, never quite having been able to get used to him. His breath was hot against her neck, his entire focus directed on her skin.  
She was his. She was the only one, she was his only one, and she hated the fact that she liked that. She was the source of all this frustration, all this desperation. She reveled in her power, feeling the needy way he gripped at her. And maybe this was just convenience to him, maybe he was just glad to have someone to fuck, but that someone was her, and as he continued to thrust into her roughly, she cried out in bittersweet ecstasy. She tightened her grip around his neck.   
“Yes, that's good. Don't stop,” his voice was a pleased buzz against her skin as he spoke, his tongue flicking over her skin as she came. He grabbed at her breast, pushing himself into her all the more firmly. Her thoughts rattled within her head as her climax swelled across her, curling her toes. She leaned back, trying to catch her breath, but he only bucked his hips against her faster, making her thoughts swim as she bobbed on top of him. He grabbed at her, kissing her skin lustfully before catching her face between his fingers, holding her inches away, “You're mine, Violet, all mine.” In his eyes was cold determination. She took a scattered breath in, not having the words for the mixture of success and fear she felt darting across her. If he noticed he didn't care, quickly consumed by staking said claim, pulling her into an open kiss, overwhelming her mouth with his tongue. She melted into his arms, satisfied and electric and positively dizzy.   
She briefly wondered what it would feel like to have a body he hadn't touched, to have a body that was hers. She closed her eyes. He was right; she was his. There was no way around it. Her thoughts tangled across her, holding her in their vice grip, making her more than acutely aware of the right way he held her.   
His teeth pulled at her lip as he drew back. She could hear the hiss of his breath through his clenched teeth, and deep throaty moan as he thrust deep inside her, his mouth pressed to her neck. “Yes,” she thought, “I'm yours, all yours, just keep telling me that I’m yours.” She had made it, now she just needed to keep him--she was almost there.   
He cried out as he finished, his fingers digging into her back.  
There was a quiet pause broken only by her ragged breathing. She didn't bother to move, feeling positively luminescent with her afterglow. He sat stiffly, uncharacteristically quiet, until he slowly reached for her arms, pushing her away from himself, his face a perfect portrait of bewilderment.  
“What the fuck, Violet?”   
She stared at him, lost and bit afraid, “What?”   
“‘I’m yours, tell me I’m yours?’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. My favorite chapter. You have no idea how hard it's been waiting to publish this.
> 
> Cheers


	44. Chapter 44

She felt the blood drain from her face, “No, I didn't say that outloud- I mean, no. That is not what I said. I said…something else.” He tilted his head to the side, trying to process what she was saying. “Alright, yes, well,” she stood up, grabbing her clothes off the floor, “this was fun but I have to go.”  
She ran through the hall, trying very hard to not think about how ridiculous she must look.   
She slammed the door to the bedroom shut behind her before sinking down to the floor, her face in her hands.   
She'd ruined it now. It was all over. She was mortified, and though she knew that she had suffered far worse at the hands of this man, this definitely felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She had to die, there was no way around it.   
“Maybe it wasn't so bad,” she tried to reason with herself, “maybe it will be fine.” But then she remembered the look on his face and buried her head in her hands again.   
She had effectively ruined any chance she had of this blowing over by running naked across the house. She couldn't have acted more guilty if she had tried. She sighed, staring at the wall opposite her. Well, her life was already shit, she might as well lose the one thing she still had going for her.  
The last thing he'd want is a clingy mess of a wife.   
It wasn’t like she had said she'd loved him or something--he'd called her his so many times before. Maybe he wouldn't mind. But no, she stared grimly at the wall, she knew him; he was more interested in pursuit than ownership. By trying to secure her place she had damned herself to obscurity. She stood up quietly, kicking the clothes across the floor. Walking over to the closet, she pulled a fresh dress from a hanger. Maybe if she pretended nothing had happened, he would too. She studied herself dejectedly in the mirror. There was a fresh bruise on her neck. She traced it with her fingers, hating the way the colors looked nice against her eyes. She turned away from the mirror, pulling the new clothes on. 

She brushed her hair with more force than necessary, punishing herself for letting her guard down. How could she be so stupid? She sighed, bracing herself against the counter.   
It didn't matter. She didn't need him to like her. They had only been prolonging the inevitable; there was no way this wasn't going to crash and burn. She stared at her hands mournfully. Slowly, she straightened up, walking out of the bathroom, slipping her shoes back on. Her clothes were still in a pile in the corner of the room. She lifted the dress, holding it in an ball against her chest. She chided herself for wanting to cry; “Silly girl, what did you expect?” And yet, she couldn't dislodge the lump in her throat. She buried her face in the fabric. It smelled like him. She threw it across the room, taking great delight in the way it hit the wall, sliding down to the floor. Re-asserting her resolve, she opened the door, leaving the room, heading towards the kitchen. 

She hadn't heard from him in the hour or so since she'd run off; no doubt he didn't want to see her either. There was no need for her to be ashamed though. She was only doing what he had asked. How many times had he told her to say that she was his? She could easily pin this on him. But then again, she thought dejectedly, how would she explain the running?   
She took some fresh meat from the fridge. Maybe if she cooked a really nice dinner, he would overlook her indiscretions. Maybe he would be willing to go back to ignoring her instead of punishing her. She mentally slapped herself, trying to break out of her self-pity-party. There was no reason for him to punish her. If anything, HE should be the one apologizing to HER. She nodded her head sharply at the thought, going back to dicing some onions. Of course, she remembered warily, he had never been one to make sense, so all bets were off as to whether or not he'd agree.  
She was so lost in her thoughts, she almost didn't hear the kitchen door open, until it shut again with a heavy thud. She froze, poised above her cutting board, her back to the door. 

“So… are we going to talk about what you said?”

…

She practically flew off his lap before he had the chance to process what she had said, offering a quick “I have to go,” and then scurrying away. 

Holy fuck.

It had finally happened, she had told him she was his. But then, he glanced at the empty hall behind him, why had she run off as if he had burst into flames? He stared at the empty room, trying to untangle the last five minutes.  
Everything had been good, it had been so good, and then she had said… what she'd said… and sprinted away. Why would she do that? What was she afraid of?   
He realized with a dreadful pallor that she hadn't meant it; she had just said it because it was what he had said. He could almost kill himself for the mistake. Things had been going so well, so directly to his plans, and then he had pushed too hard and lost her. He leaned back, massaging his eyes. Damn it all. How could he have been so stupid?   
Sighing, he stood up, picking his shirt up off the floor, pulling it back on dejectedly. He was supposed to be a master of seduction; how could he misread the situation so horribly? He straightened out his clothes, distraught. Of course she was afraid; why shouldn't she be afraid? He had done the one thing he had actively tried to avoid, had exploited her fear and manipulated it in order to trespass in ways he had no ability to take back. He wouldn't be surprised if she never let him touch her again. The thought of her flinching away from his fingers overwhelmed him with agony.  
He strained to listen, but didn't hear any noise coming from the upstairs. No doubt she didn't want to see him. He couldn't really blame her; he'd give her her privacy, let her regroup and become angry. And he knew it was anger that would come next; that much he was sure of. He sighed again.   
Normally his greed was one of his finer virtues, but this time it had ruined him. He had had her on his lap, dressed only in lace, moaning his name, and that hadn't been enough? She was already married to him, what more could he ask for?   
All there was left to do now was set aside his pride and hope that she would decide to overlook this indiscretion on his part. At first glance it seemed simple enough, but the longer he thought about it, the more monumental it felt.   
He couldn't remember the last time he has tried to muster up an apology. The very thought revolted him. And why should he be the one to apologize? He wasn't wrong; she was his. It wasn't his fault she didn't want to acknowledge that. If anything, she should apologize to him for being so incredibly obtuse. Besides, was this really worse than attempted murder?   
He stared at the door blankly before squaring his shoulders, walking off to the back of the house with purpose.

When he finally came back to the foyer, he could hear her moving about the kitchen. He was about to walk in when his nerves caused him to pause.   
She was cutting something. That's wasn't good. That meant she had a weapon on hand. She also wasn't humming. He wasn't sure which of these facts made him more nervous. Breathing deeply, he steeled himself, pushing open the door and walking in.   
He froze in the entryway, realizing at the sight of her that he had forgotten everything he was going to say. She paused, stationary, as if she was a shop mannequin. He took another deep breath.

“So… are we going to talk about what you said?”


	45. Chapter 45

“So… are we going to talk about what you said?” 

“I would prefer not to.” She continued staring at the counter, not wanting to face him. He wasn't going to kick her out, was he? She was still useful. She chided herself for being so silly. She wasn't the one she ought to be afraid for, she thought, stifling a groan. Subtly in revenge wasn't exactly his forte. She had placed her family in danger over a bit of selfishness AGAIN. 

“Okay then, well…” he fidgeted with the small box in his hands, uncomfortable, “I really think we should, but-”  
“Listen,” she turned to face him, her hands pressed tightly together in front of her face, “it was nothing, it just-”  
“Yes of course! I mean, yes. I just thought we should-”  
“Oh no, of course, always good to…” she gestured with her hand.  
“Yes, always good to…follow up, so…” he trailed off.  
She looked like she wanted to die. He wondered if he looked the same. “So, yes. I'm glad we’re on the same page.”

She wondered if she looked as terrified as he did. The fact that he seemed so scared only added to her mortification.   
“Yes, of course. Well, after five years of marriage, I suppose we ought to.” She shifted her weight to the other leg. “Be on the same page, that is.” Her voice trailed off weakly. She could kick herself. Did she really need to bring up the fact that she was his wife? Weren't things bad enough already?

There was an uncomfortable pause.  
“Yes.”  
He couldn't believe she brought up their marriage, reminding him that it was through no fault of her own that she remained here. That one hurt, but he couldn't blame her. He looked away awkwardly. She didn't even want to be in the same room as him. It was weird having a person who just saw you naked feel such animosity towards you. 

She couldn't even imagine how idiotic she must have looked, only barely clothed, blurting things out like a 12 year old. She couldn’t meet his eyes when he began to speak again.  
“So… I was hoping that you'd agree with me that with everything said and done… we can just call this even, and spare ourselves the embarrassment of an apology.”  
“Yes,” she held her hands out towards him eagerly, momentarily elated before feeling her gut sink again. She had messed up so badly he didn't even want to be told he was right.

While he was grateful for her enthusiastic agreement, he couldn't believe that she was so upset that she didn't want to hear him say she was right. He cleared his throat, taken aback.   
“You… are fine without apologies? You don't want to wrap this up?”

Shit. How had she fallen into this trap? He had given her a second chance, given her the opportunity to make amends without humiliating herself, and she had thrown it away in the name of pride. She felt her face drain of color.  
“Well, I suppose an apology really is in order-”  
“I have something.” He held a nondescript cardboard box out to her. She took it cautiously, afraid. What sort of apology was this? Was it a gun? Did he want her to kill herself? She looked up at him nervously, then opened the lid, peering down. Gently, her hands shaking, she reached in, pulling out a small knife.

She stared at it and then back up at him.  
“I… really don't understand.”   
“You've become quite skilled with that carving knife, and I didn't want you to feel unprotected, and I thought you would find this to be an acceptable fit. Don't get me wrong, it's certainly not big enough to be lethal, but we can work up to that-”   
“Okay, but,” she blinked at him, looking bewildered, “how is this an apology?”  
He threw his hands in the air, exasperated. She was impossible.  
“Well damn it, Violet, I'm just trying to make a nice gesture, okay?”  
She looked between him and the knife again, “But the apology?”  
“Do you want to hear me say I'm sorry? Fine. I’m sorry. Is that good enough for you?”   
“Wait, no, hold up” She gestured for him to stop, looking more than a bit concerned, “what the hell did you do?”

“You know what?” he puffed himself up a bit, standing at his full height, “That is a good question. What did I do? Because honestly, you're only fooling yourself if you think it isn't true. So no, I’m not sorry, in fact, I enjoyed hearing you say it and I think you should do it more often,” He took a deep breath in.   
She stared at him incredulously, “Wait wait wait--so, you aren’t mad?”  
“What? No,” he shook his head vehemently, “you’re the one who's mad.”  
“But I'm not mad.”   
He stared at her, frozen, “You're not mad?”   
“No. So then, all that stuff with apologies?”  
“I thought you were mad!”  
“Well I thought you were mad!”  
They stood in the quiet, unsure what to do next.  
“So,” he gestured between them, “neither of us are mad? About what you said?”  
“No, it was an accident.” She groaned, leaning against the counter, putting down the knife.  
He sighed, relief dancing across his face, “Oh! Okay, I mean, I figured you didn't mean to say it-”  
“I definitely didn't. I don't know, I guess I didn't realize that I was talking out loud.” 

He stopped mid-nod.  
“So… you were thinking it?”  
“I thought I was.”   
“Violet,” he held a hand up in front of himself cautiously, “do you… think of yourself as mine?”  
She blinked at him, “I thought we covered this an hour ago.”  
“No, I mean, you meant to say… what you did?”  
“Well I didn't mean to say it,”  
“What the fuck, Violet?”   
Her face paled at his tone of surprise, “Oh my god.”   
“You-”  
“Oh my god, no-”  
“You think-”  
“No, this is not happening,” she tangled her fingers in her hair.  
“Of yourself-”  
“Oh shit, no,” she buried her face in her hands.  
“As mine?” 

“Oh my god, see this is why I thought you would be mad, because you're mad!”  
He stepped closer to her, “You think of yourself as mine?”   
She buried her face in her hands again, “Stop saying it! You're the one who started this whole mess.”   
“No, fuck, Violet,” he pulled her hands away from her face before leaning down, pressing a kiss to her lips that made her insides quiver, “you are mine.” She pulled back, looking up at him, feeling very much afraid. She was surprised to see him smiling hungrily. “My Violet. Mine.”   
Her ribcage tingled with a curious mixture of feelings of elation and betrayal, but then he was kissing her again and he smelt of red wine and sweat, and she couldn't care about anything else.   
He wanted her.  
He wanted her.   
He wanted her.  
She felt her last bit of redeemability tumble and shatter against the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, you guys!   
> As of yesterday, NMNL is written in its entirely. Contrary to popular belief, it DOES in fact have an end, and the end is nigh. I'm working very very VERY hard to stockpile content like some sort of literary squirrel for y'all so that when I inevidibly need to go back to school and become a productive member of society, you'll still have enough to keep you entertained.   
> That's it for now, enjoy your moment of niceness while you still can.
> 
> Cheers


	46. Chapter 46

It had been inevitable--he had always known it would come to this. He reveled in his victory, his pride and avarice roaring loudly at his successful conquest. Two grand wins in one day; it was a good night to be him. He lifted her up, perching her on the counter. Her could feel her squirm anxiously beneath his hands but he only held her tighter, smirking as he kissed the crook of her neck.   
“Don't we have work to do? We have to leave soon.”   
“We will leave when I say so and not a moment sooner.”  
“But aren't your men on the way? We really need-”  
“Not now.”   
“But don't-”  
“I said not now.” He knew that they had to go, that they had work to do, but her skin was an altar he never wanted to leave. He pressed against her, reveling in the intoxicating bliss of it all. “Say it again; tell me that you’re mine.”

“It doesn't work like that.”  
“Oh?” There was a treacherous undulation to his voice. “Because I was under the impression that that's exactly how it works.”   
She tried in vain to think of a sharp enough retort, but he took the opportunity of her hesitancy to overwhelm her mouth with his tongue. Any reply she might have begun escaped her as a quiet hum as he cradled her face, tilting it upwards.   
“My pretty little Violet, pretty little wife. My Violet, just mine,” he broke the kiss with a smirking whisper, running his thumb across her bottom lip, tucking just the tip of his finger between her teeth. “Such a pretty little mouth.” He bent down, pressing a heated kiss to the hollow of her neck that made her moan louder than she had expected. Her hands held him tightly about the shoulders as she tried to keep him in place. He gripped her breast tightly, pressing against her with his palm, his tongue still hot against her throat. “Such a pretty little figure.” She flushed. He dropped his hand down her body slowly before pushing it very purposefully up her skirt, making her whimper involuntarily. “And what pretty little sounds,” he nipped her throat quickly before straightening up to meet her eyes, an infuriatingly proud smile on his face. She suddenly felt very nervous. His grin widened, his teeth becoming a picket fence, warning her to stay away. “But do you want to know the best part of having you as mine, Countess?” His voice was a purr. She didn't reply, consumed by the sudden and dangerous proximity of his fingers to the insides of her thighs. He leaned in closely to her ear, the tender sensation of his whisper causing her to shiver, “The look on that pretty little face of yours when I fuck you.” 

He followed through with a punctuating smirk, thrilled at the sudden gasp she gave as he pushed his fingers inside her. She tried to cling to him, but he held her back, still crooning softly, “Come now, I just told you that was my favorite part. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?” She grit her teeth, no doubt suffering for her inability to form a successfully coherent insult. He laughed again, cradling her face so that he could get a good look before moving back in to kiss her. She met his grip tightly, holding his face to hers, kissing him back urgently.   
It really wasn't much work to rile her up, and he was pleased to find her so so ready, so wet at his touch. She let out a soft gasp of pleasure, the sound spilling over her open lips. Her grip tightened as she tried to press her chest to his.  
Her teeth pulled at his lip, her hands tugging him closer, closer, her moans rattling throughout his body. She panted against his open mouth, her mewls of pleasure overwhelming him in all that she was, making him blissful in the fact that all of it, every bit of it, was his.   
He had to admit, he was a little surprised by the stream of events. Sure, he had always known that she would come around, but he had always imagined it being a lot more… submissive. But here she was, all fire and flame, and he was drowning in it, as always.   
Her fingers flickered over the front of her dress, pulling it open, and then she was taking his hand from her face, sliding it down to her chest, tucking it beneath the fabric. She pushed herself against him, causing him to reflexively grip her breast, and a pleased rumble of a moan swelled across her.   
“There, yes, right there,” she rolled her hips into his touch.  
“Fuck, Violet. Fuck.” He couldn't think of anything better to say, couldn't articulate the pounding cascade of thoughts running across, over, and through him.   
She shrugged, cradling his jaw with her hands as she kissed him deeply, “If you must.” 

There was a thrilling power that came with the acknowledgement of the previously unspoken. Even the way he touched her was different, filled with a revitalization of curiosity and desire. She knew she was playing a dangerous game in trying to tell him what to do, but it was one he complied with readily. He reached behind her, pulling her towards himself. His arousal was more than evident, especially as he gained the ability to rock himself against her, pressing his straining erection between her legs. She moaned at the pressure, not bothering to break from the kiss before starting to undo his shirt. Her hands searched across the flushed heat of his skin, pulling him closer, pressing herself to him.   
He lifted her off the counter only long enough to shove her against the wall. She made a startled sound at the impact, but he didn't seem to notice nor mind, preoccupied with the task of pushing his tongue between her teeth. It was easy to forget just how much taller he was when they were on eye level, but now that he had her firmly on the ground, he clearly had the upper hand. He ground his tented erection against her, pushing it against her hip.   
He seemed to enjoy the palpable shift in dynamics, a growling pleasure evident in his voice.  
Taking her hand, he brought it down towards his intimidatingly stiff crotch. The gasp she gave was muffled by his lips against hers, his smirk at her reaction dissolving into another open-mouthed kiss. He was amazingly warm as she cupped his swollen cock through his pants, her lean fingers touching him hungrily.

Her hands fluttered across his belt graciously fast, her quick movements tugging his hips forward. He leaned back, letting a hand slip back down to her breast. She glanced up at him briefly, a concentrated look in her eyes. Finally, tugging his pants free, she pulled him back down against herself into a kiss. He allowed his hand to explore her firm breasts, conveniently enabling himself to press her back into the wall. His other arm remained braced above her so that he could loom down in a way he hoped was intimidating. Her hand slipped past his waist band, seeping down to his throbbing cock. Her fingers were so small against him, but so talented.   
“Such a good little wife,” he let his hand trail down from her chest, encircling her until he was able to grab her ass, pulling her forward so that he could more effectively grind himself against her. She gasped, an adorably sharp intake of breath, still ever surprised by him. “My good little wife. My good little Violet.” He leaned in, kissing the side of her neck sultrily. She whimpered as he ground against her again, the soft warmth of her a welcome sensation against his stiff erection. He reached down with his other hand, gripping her from behind. She looked up at him, her face flushed and anticipatory. “So,” he kept his voice low, “do you want another try at telling me whose you are?” He began to kiss along her neck again and she groaned hungrily at the sensation.  
“Yeah, sure, whatever. You win.”  
“Oh come now, that hardly counts.”   
“Don't push your luck.”   
“Do you forget who you're speaking to?” He rolled himself against her, pressing her backwards and enjoying the ever so slight sensation of her failed attempts to push back. “You,” he stooped closer, intimately close, whispering directly into her ear, “are all mine and only mine. Do you understand?” He could hear her breath hitch at his words. He slipped his hand between her legs to further his point. She moaned, clutching at him. “No one else gets those pretty little moans, that pretty little mouth.” He lapped against her neck hungrily, feeling her quake against him. Torturously slowly, he slid down, catching her pert breast in his mouth. He hummed a note of pleasure against her, relishing the way she shivered. He pressed his fingers back inside her, back into her excruciatingly wet warmth. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, her breath catching as he continued to work against her. “No one else gets to experience what it is to be between your legs, how it feels to touch you.” Her fingers tightened, a whimper escaping her as he continued his work. “Not that it matters much--no one else could ever make you come the way that I do, or as easily as I do.” He straightened up again, forcing her back, “And no one else is ever going to get the chance to try, yes?” He practically purred when she looked up at him, her eyes dark and glazed with a look he didn't find disagreeable in the least.  
He pushed his tongue into her open mouth as he lifted her up, thrusting inside her. 

She gasped at the very sudden presence of his hard erection. He pressed her to the wall, his arms hooked beneath her legs, building up a rhythm of deep, penetrating strokes. She gave out a low groan with each thrust, unsure how exactly they had ended up here but not at all sorry that they had. He panted against her bare skin, fixated on her, just her, only her. He continued to pound against her, pushing her backwards, trying to touch as much of her body as possible. She arched into his touch as far as she could, wanting every inch, every moment of this. She gasped, panting, crying out her pleasure as she held him as tightly as she could manage. He worked his tongue over her neck, across her throat, everywhere he could reach. She felt her climax bloom inside her, turning into a racing fire inside her bones, popping like flash paper. She clung to him, his hands tight on her skin as he plunged himself within her, gritting his teeth with the sensation. She directed his face back up towards hers, kissing him frantically. He met her enthusiasm, pressing her back until she was unable to move at all, save to try to further entangle him in her limbs. 

He reveled in every sound he pulled from her, feeling the flex of her leg muscles against him, the soft tight warmth of each thrust into her. She was a paradise, an oasis, a muse of the Greek order. Even as she cried out she was gentle, all of her vocalizations sounding like notes of surprise, as if in each instant she was still shocked to find herself enjoying it. All he wanted was to keep the stream flowing, to keep her blissfully shocked at how good he could make her feel. His pride swelled within him--no one would ever or could ever know what it was to hear her moan against the side of their face; it was a right reserved exclusively for him. She cried out again, a comically short note corresponding to a sharp, deep thrust he gave. He smirked, kissing along her jaw.   
“There you go. See? I take care of what's mine.”  
There was a darkness that curled around the edges of his voice, and as he spoke, he dug his fingers into her.  
He had never experienced such a profound possessiveness before. The thought of anyone else touching her normally filled him with rage, but now? Now it was blasphemy.   
“No one else’s. You're all mine. Only mine.” He hissed the words one by one through his teeth, straining to keep his voice steady. 

“Yes, I’m yours, yes,” her words were scattered across her breathlessness as he continued to thrust inside her.   
“Say it again,” he kissed alongside her neck. She tightened her grip around his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sensations he flooded her with.  
“I'm yours, all yours.”  
“Just mine?”  
“Just yours, only yours.” He seemed to thoroughly enjoy that answer, picking up the pace to something rougher, more urgent.   
Her toes curled at the sheer AMOUNT of it all. She was beginning to have serious doubts about her ability to stand after this.   
He began to breath more heavily, his moans getting deeper with each stroke until he finished loudly, breathless against her open mouth. She heaved air into her lungs, trying to convince her heart rate to slow or at least steady.   
He placed her down softly, kissing her lips, keeping her enwreathed within his arms. He leaned his weight into her, tired and satisfied, positively glowing with his victory. She sighed into the kiss, her arms still about him. There was a warm silence, a comforting silence, a silence she wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap inside. She could hear his heart racing from where she stood, pressed against his chest.

Gently, he pushed her away, beginning to straighten out his clothes.   
“Yes, well, that's all well and good, but we still have work to do.”   
She looked confused, surprised even, as he started to walk away. She leaned her weight back against the wall, still trying to catch her breath, a dejected pallor settling across her. He looked away, buttoning his shirt as he walked, pretending he hadn't noticed. They'd have plenty of time to coddle her feelings later, but for now there was still work to be done. 

She felt a slow sorrow creep across her. That was it? No change, nothing at all to indicate something had happened between them? Had anything happened between them?   
She watched his back, only somewhat listening as he began to talk at her. So that was it. That was all he wanted--some sense of permanency, some sense of ownership. He wanted her, but only in the most physical way possible; he didn't want her. She didn't like the fact that it bothered her, the fact that it rippled across her insides like a black velvet shroud. She was his property, and that's all she would ever be to him. She crossed her arms, suddenly very aware of her nakedness.

He looked back over his shoulder at her to check that she was listening. She nodded, but she was rooted to the spot. Why had she gone all soft suddenly? Where was the flint and brimstone he was used to? She was fine just a minute ago. Women were so fickle, always inventing injury at the slightest perceived injustice. He walked back over towards her, frowning and gently fixing her hair.   
He didn't like the way she looked at him; it made him feel like something treacherous was looming on the horizon, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. She must just be anxious about the mission. That had to be it; there was no other explanation. Cradling her face between his hands, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.   
“No need for nerves; I always take care of my own.” 

She folded her hands over his, as if to make a prayer of it.


	47. Chapter 47

He was… satisfied. He was.   
All of his plans were falling together at a rapid pace. Soon, he would have victory to spare, along with a beautiful woman on his arm to admire his conquest. She was his, yes, but so was everything else. The world was his, and he was unstoppable. So why was she so despondent? She ought to be enthralled to have such a powerful man at her side. He certainly was more than ready to become a fearfully respected man among his enemies. She had everything to be excited for, but still she stayed quiet, strangely contemplative. Even during dinner he could hardly get a word out of her. She didn't seem mad, per say, but it was frustrating to have to be distracted by such trivial emotional whims on a night where they ought to be rejoicing; literally everything was going as well as possible. 

He came up behind her as she washed the dishes, putting his hands on her hips, kissing the back of her neck.   
When she failed to respond, he brought his hand up gently, tracing his fingers against the front of her throat.   
He leaned in, murmuring softly into her ear, “The first thing we’ll get is a nice pearl necklace for you. Something flashy, maybe with my name engraved on it.”   
“You want to give me a dog collar?”  
“No, of course not. It'll just be a tasteful way to say ‘my husband spends more money on gifts than you will ever be able to acquire across the whole of your miserable life,’ obviously.”   
He tilted her head to the side, kissing her jaw. She allowed herself to be moved, but otherwise didn't reciprocate the action.   
“It seems tacky.”  
“We'll be rich enough to afford tackiness. There's no greater show of wealth than proving you don't respect it.”   
“Of course, why would you ever want something to think you respect anything at all?” 

He growled, pushing back, grabbing her by her upper arm and turning her to face him, “Okay, I'm finished. You have exactly five seconds to explain what the hell your problem is.”   
“I don't have a problem,” she shoved his hand off.  
“Exactly! By all accounts you shouldn't be acting like a massive bitch, and yet, here we are!”   
“Oh yes, that's real nice. That's a great way to speak to your wife.”   
“Don't try to change the subject. You're always flaunting your supposed moral high ground, but last I checked, lying was pretty high up on the list of things you're not supposed to do.”  
“Oh, you mean your to-do list?”  
“Just, stop it,” he held his hands up in exasperation. “You either need to tell me what the hell is going on, or you have to forfeit any right you may think you have to act like an absolute prick.”  
“You would know all about that, wouldn't you?”  
“Yes, please, keep insulting me, that's fixing so many of your problems right now. You're right, how dare I show the slightest interest in anything surrounding you? But at least you're consistent. Every time I slip up, you remind me why I don't care.”  
“You're right, you don't care. About anything. Anything other than your weird understanding of glory, that is.”   
“Are you mad at me because I don't ‘care’ enough about something?” His disdain clearly showed in his overemphasized air quotes, “Since when has that ever been an issue?”  
“You're right, fine, you're right,” she held her hands up in angry surrender, “I'm sorry, okay?” she said, very obviously not sorry.  
He scowled, still mad, “No, you don't get to try to ruin a perfectly good day, perhaps the best day of my life, and then shrug it off. Whatever this issue is, you need to either fix it yourself or forget it.”

“Best day of your life? Is that how much this heist means to you?” The question was sudden, but sincere. He paused, glancing away.   
“It's not just… Yes. Yes, it does.”   
She wanted so badly for him to say something horrendously cheesy like “but not as much as you,” but all he offered was an awkward silence.   
It was strange, to feel her heart shatter in this way. He wanted her, but he didn't need her the same way that she needed him--the way she needed clean air and fresh dirt and heavy liquor. She needed him like she needed rest, as something she could fall into, something that would always be there. She needed him, and he could only ever want her. What would happen once that wanting was gone? All of her earlier exuberance seemed so childish, so premature. All she had managed to do was make him understand that she truly did need him more than he needed her, that he was the only thing she had. She may be his favorite option, but he was her only choice. The fact burned inside her like a hot ember, a pinpoint sizzling against her heart in a painful sort of mourning. She looked away, sincerely hoping that she wouldn't cry again. This was so stupid; she had worked so hard to get him in order to insure her own survival, and now she was pushing him away? It was ridiculously juvenile; she didn't have the luxury of caring about whether or not he liked her.   
“Are you still nervous? Is that what this is about?” She took a deep breath in. His voice was quiet, not disparaging nor amused; it could almost be placating if it wasn't so frustrated. She looked back at him. His brow was furrowed, his face a shadow of concentration. She sighed.  
“I suppose I am. I'm sorry, I- I’m sorry.”   
He stepped back towards her, tilting her chin up, kissing her lightly. She let him wrap his arms around her shoulders, encircling her, pulling her close to his chest.  
“You're mine. Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise.”  
The words fell upon her like a shroud.


	48. Chapter 48

“You're making me sit in the back?” She looked at him in disbelief.   
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “What's so wrong with that?”  
“I haven't graduated to the front?”  
He scoffed, “What? Allow you to drive? Unlikely.”  
“I drove a heavily concussed you to and from the doctors without killing you.”  
“I can't be seen having my wife drive me, it's tasteless.”  
“Well then, why don't you drive?”  
“Drive myself? Even more tasteless. God, Violet, you betray your penniless heritage.”  
“Alright, sure,” she didn't feel the need to remind him that she had plenty of pennies before he had interfered, “assuming all of that makes sense, we have to fit five people into one car because?”  
“Because I said so, damn it!” He lifted his hands towards her in exasperation before taking a deep breath in, trying to steady himself, “Look. If possible, could you look DEEP within yourself and try to find the capacity to NOT be a brat about this? You'll be beside two of the highest ranking members of the troop, so it won't look bad for you.”  
“I didn't know they had ranks.”  
“It's all based upon how much I happen to like them at the moment. So unless you want to see yourself plummet all the way down into riding in the trunk, I would suggest-”  
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”   
He closed his eyes, looking very much like he wanted to leave her behind.   
She frowned, peering over his shoulder, “So who else am I with?”  
“Fernald and Harold.” She stared at him blankly. “You… don't know their names yet?”  
“You didn't give me much opportunity to learn.”   
“Well, now you'll have plenty of bonding time in which to become just the BEST of friends.”   
“Alright, sure,” she looked back towards the car, “but if I end up liking one of them more than you and having an affair, that's on you.”  
“Oh, Darling,” he patted her cheek, “I would see all three of you dead before you even got the chance.” Something in the pressure of his hand told her that he wasn't joking. 

…

She had almost forgotten that land wasn’t always so flat. It was easy to get used to the city, to the horizontal stretches only broken by the up, up, up of the buildings, jagged teeth that swallowed you whole.   
She hadn’t even been given the grace of a window seat, and so with her head leaned back, she stared forlornly at the slowly inclining horizon. It unspooled messily, a haphazard line that looked more dropped than placed. She sank down in the seat, not having the energy to care about the lack of dignity her posture carried. Despite her height, she was already shorter than the two men flanking her, and when she slid down, she fell decently below their shoulders. It feel eerily like being caught between bookends. Her knees jutted out beneath the hem of her dress. Had they always been so bony? She glanced up front.  
A map spilled over Olaf’s lap, unfurled across the dashboard, all creases and watermarks. It seemed more stain than paper in spots, but he evidently didn’t mind, tracing his finger along the route. He said something to the man driving that she couldn’t quite hear. She closed her eyes, figuring she might as well make an attempt at sleep. The car jostled slightly, the last dregs of light slipping away behind the rickety skyline as they trudged forward. 

He stared at the map, running his finger over it again and again. God, he could practically taste how close they were. The car had been quiet for a while now, everyone undoubtedly caught up in the greatness of the moment. He folded the map shut, carefully smoothing every crease. He hoped his nervous energy wasn’t as palpable as it felt. That, of course, wasn’t to say that he was nervous; he was never nervous about plots he had crafted himself. He had planned it; of course it was going to work. Although, he would feel better if they could just get there already. His fingers itched with the effort of straining against his own impatience. His men began whispering in a frantic tone. Glancing over his shoulder quickly, he caught a surprisingly alarmed look on their faces. It didn’t take him long to figure out why, his eyes dropping until they came to rest on a sleeping Violet, propped against the arm of the man with a silver nose. Their comic bewilderment turned into a quiet, fearful anticipation. It made him glad to know he was so feared. Still.   
He cocked his eyebrow, making a show of his words, “Don’t you dare move.” She needed to rest. Besides, the only time he could be sure she wasn’t plotting was when she was asleep. He turned around again, trying to discreetly watch them in the rearview mirror. They stared at her a moment longer before exchanging a look of confusion and going back to their business carefully. Her hair fell across her face, curling across her cheek. He had never been so actively jealous of a subordinate before; it was a strange feeling.   
The car drove over a bump in the road, jostling them. She sighed in her sleep, and then uncrossing her arms, let a hand rest on his man’s inner elbow. The burning in his chest felt like the birth of a supernova.   
Evidently he had underestimated her again. After all, how cruel did one have to be to admit to being yours only to flagrantly disregard the claim mere hours later? Not even a day, and she was making him doubt that the exchange had occurred at all. He closed his eyes. He was being ridiculous; she was asleep. Wasn't she? He glanced at her again but she hadn't moved. He wanted to take her back into his arms, to hear her say it again. Just to make sure, of course. He didn’t care that she was his, it was simply good practice to look into one’s investments. He had learned what came of caring too much, and it was a mistake he would never make again.


	49. Chapter 49

There was a slow lack of movement. She fought against the weight of consciousness, hearing Olaf speak quietly. She tightened the hold she had on his arm, not wanting to wake up just yet. It felt unusually comfortable, less wiry. His voice continued to drift back over her, edging her towards waking. Back. She blinked her eyes open and was embarrassed to find a very confused man with a silver nose staring down at her. She straightened up quickly, dropping his arm, feeling a blush settle across her. He coughed quietly, looking away, but graciously didn't say anything. She looked around, trying to get her bearings.   
They were in some dingey parking lot, outside a musty looking rest stop. She stretched as far as she could manage, trying to pull the sleep from her bones. It was still night; they couldn't have been traveling for long.   
The tenor of Olaf’s voice changed, ringing out clear as he spoke without looking up from the map, “Oh good, you're finally up. Sorry, are dangerous plots too boring for you?” She didn't bother to respond, knowing that making a fool of him in front of his subordinates could only end poorly. He opened the door, his long legs unfurling from the cramped car as he stepped out. The others followed suit. She followed a bit slower, still waking up, crossing her arms in the cold air.  
“Why are we stopped?”  
“Gas.”   
She twisted a bit in place, trying to undo all of the cramps that came with such tight proximity, squinting at the darkness, “Do we have any water?”   
He cocked his eyebrow, “We have wine.”   
“Not the same thing at all. Unless you're planning a reverse miracle.”  
“Why don't you make yourself useful then,” he pulled out a wallet and handed her a few dollars, “and go put some money on the pump. In a show of generosity, I will allow you to buy some water as well.”   
She rolled her eyes ever so slightly, “How kind,” but left before he could take the offer back. It just felt good to walk without being trapped between two human monoliths.   
The electric lighting hummed as she walked into the station, carefully picking up a water and placing it on the counter. A disinterested man glanced over her and then began to ring her up.  
“Can you put the rest of it on pump five?”   
He looked at her and then glanced out the window before turning back to his register with a sigh.  
“So, are you being held hostage or something?”  
She blinked at him, taken aback, “Pardon?”  
He gestured over his shoulder, “That's a lot of big dudes out there, and they send the pretty little lady in? There's no other excuse for such a lack of chivalry.” He smirked and she realized he was joking, “You tell them they better get their act together, or someone else will.”   
She gripped the bottle tightly, “Yes, well… thank you. I’ll be sure to do that.”   
“I mean it,” he gestured towards her, “a pretty little thing like you walking around by herself? Not the best idea.” She turned and left with the curl of his smile, still feeling the chill permeating her like a damp cloth.   
She didn't know why it had startled her so much- no, not startled, scared. Her footsteps felt staggeringly loud as she walked back to the car. Two of the men were smoking while the other worked to refill the car, moving slowly. Olaf was leaning against the passenger seat door, lazily watching her.   
“You've managed to return in one piece, I presume?” He didn't seem to expect a response, too engaged in his map, and so she didn't offer any, looking back at the electric yellow windows. She moved in closer to him, tucking herself beside him. He frowned down at her, but moved his arm across her almost automatically, holding her to his side, allowing her to lean her head against his chest. She could feel the curiosity radiating off of him and so she gestured to the map, hoping to distract him.

“So where are we now?” She leaned into him, smelling wonderfully of shampoo.   
“Right about here.” He drew his finger to a crease in the paper.  
“And we started where?” He could see the disappointment in her face at the shortness of the distance. He couldn't help but smile bemusedly; she was so openly and plainly emotional.  
“Don't worry, we have plenty of time left for you to seduce my men.”  
“Actually, I think I rather scared him.”  
“Well of course. You're not an easy poison to swallow.” She didn't reply to his jibe, but did tighten her grip on his arm. Something wasn't right. He glanced up at the building again.   
She tugged at his jacket, bringing his attention back down to herself, “So what happens once we arrive?”  
“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it. Do you remember what happened last time I gave you space to plan ahead?” She looked away moodily, unable to fight him on that one. He pulled her closer, enjoying the way she folded into his touch. He hesitated, watching her face as she looked over the map tiredly. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he let go of her, and opened the door, pulling a bottle of wine from the glove compartment.   
He shoved the map into one of his men's hands, not particularly caring who it was, “You navigate. I haven't had a drink in hours.” They just nodded, unfazed, before getting back into the car. He opened the door exaggeratedly, beckoning Violet in with a bow, “Ladies first.”   
She climbed in with an uncharacteristic lack of protest, sliding to the middle quietly. He followed suit, making sure to shove her slightly so that she wouldn't think he liked their close proximity any more than she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and drawings and messages! You are all so wonderful and patient with me, ily. 
> 
> Cheers


	50. Chapter 50

The scenery was dark now, uninteresting and largely unseeable. He leaned towards the window, staring into the night in a fitfully concentrated way that made her insides clench with the desire to kiss him. She hooked her arm beneath his, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. He didn't protest, too engaged in his bottle of wine to really care. For the first time in a while, she felt too nervous to stomach a drink, although perhaps that was just the car. She looked away, feeling that watching him much longer would be too much.   
She shoved down the thoughts knocking at the back of her throat, causing her words to pile up in an insurmountable lump. 

He was almost there, almost had everything he wanted. So why was he so distracted? He had a hard time focusing on the imminent glory of the future, preoccupied by the feel of her cheek on his arm. His chest swelled with pride at being the one she lay against. Not that he would let it show; he wasn't desperate. He took another drink of wine. 

Was it a mistake to have said she was his? Undoubtedly. But the look on his face when she had said it, the devastatingly thrilled desire… She clenched her fingers involuntarily.   
Yes, he wanted her, but she felt a thrumming, hungry need for his adoration. If he was going to take away everything, the least he could do was care. Although- She closed her eyes, shoving away the persistent thought that had been nagging at her since that first night together after he came back, the thought that danced around the corners of her dreams when he tangled his legs with hers in sleep, or when she came down to a hot coffee in the morning. She tried to measure her breathing, tried not to think about the way he made her want to live under his fingertips, the way he smiled proudly when he made her climax and the quiet way he would kiss the top of her head so that she wouldn’t notice. She grit her teeth, pulling her eyes open again, steeling her vision on the headlights. The very least she deserved for all of this was an eternity of misery; there was no happiness in store for her. 

As much as he wanted the journey to be over, it was very difficult to have her be so close and have to fight the urge to kiss her neck; he wanted nothing more than to take a break long enough to listen to her tell him that she was his. Just to be sure. Her fingers tightened against him as if reading his thoughts. He continued staring out the window, refusing to look at her. Looking at her would only make it worse. He wondered if it would be gauche for him to say fuck it and pull her into his lap right now. He could get away with it; they all feared him enough. But no, the last thing he wanted was to share any aspect of her, including the delightful sounds of surprise she would undoubtedly make in response.

When had this become her? When had this happened? She was so tired, so exhausted. All she wanted was to slow down, to rest and forget; forget his touch wasn't kind, forget he could only ever hurt her. She had to hate him. And yet, he was the only place she could run to, the only constant she had. When had he become human?

It was nervous energy, that's what it was. He needed an outlet for all of this pent-up frustration, that's why he couldn't stop thinking about the way she felt against him. After all, he was only a man; could anyone blame him? Soon he would have time to spare, and plenty of wealth to fill it with. He would buy a large house in the mountains just for the two of them, with a bed in every room and an entire wardrobe for her made up only of lace and pearls. He caught himself smiling at the thought, and immediately went back to scowling out the window. He had to stay focused. 

The car went over a large rut in the road, tossing them all a bit. He reflexively reached across her protectively. Even after they resettled, he kept his hand on her thigh, holding her legs to his. Gingerly, she lay her head back on his shoulder, holding his arm tightly, trying her best to feign indifference. He distractedly rubbed his thumb against her, and she felt her heart burn within her, miserable and wondrous. Exhausted, she sighed, closing her eyes, feeling somewhat safe if miserable. As far as her history went, that could be regarded as a win. The car continued to jostle them lightly, winding its way into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it to 50! That's absolutely crazy. It's weird that y'all know literally nothing about me except that I'm over-invested in writing this mess, and go to university. Send me your assumptions about me, I'm curious.
> 
> We're almost there, dudes. Almost there.
> 
> Cheers!


	51. Chapter 51

She didn't realize that she had fallen asleep until she was awakened by the sudden slam of a car door. At some point she must have slid over so that her head lay on his chest. He was semi-reclined, propped against the window, his fingers dusting lazily over her hair. She straightened up slowly, tired, trying to figure out where they were now. The night was edging into day, the faintest green coloring the nauseous skyline. She blinked, trying to make her thoughts coherent. 

Opening the door, he stepped out, glad to have a moment of reprieve from the close quarters. He hadn't slept, too agitated for rest. Finally, they had elected to stop by another dingy truck stop, if only to refuel. He peered down at her, still in the car, rubbing her eyes with the balls of her hands. He hated how attractive she was when she was tired.   
She moved slowly, getting out of the car with a stretch that pulled the fabric of her dress against her body nicely. One of his men lit a cigarette. 

She headed towards the somewhat unnerving bathrooms, trying her very best not to touch anything. She was used to dealing with dirt and grime, but road stop bathrooms have a special way of seeming like they had never been in the presence of the very mention of soap, let alone seen a bar itself.   
She did her best to rinse her face in the sink, frowning at her reflection in the cloudy mirror. There was a chipped layer of plastic covering the glass, like in a hospital. She patted her hands dry on the fabric of her dress, feeling at least a bit better if not entirely. 

He liked seeing her disheveled. It suited her. She came back to the car, her skirt crumpled and eyes tired, an obvious exhaustion to her frame. He extended a shitty gas station coffee, which she reached for gratefully. Right before she took it, he lifted it back, cocking his eyebrow in admonition. She paused, and then sighing, lifted her hands to bring his face down to hers, kissing him lightly, sleep still creeping around the edges of her actions. 

Smirking, satisfied, he handed her the coffee wordlessly. She held it tightly in hands, trying to siphon some of the warmth, leaning back against the car. He followed suit, relaxing an arm behind her, watching the quiet hum of the almost-morning. 

The scent of cigarette smoke wafted across the asphalt lazily, tangling with the faintly minty scent of her, and the strong, bitter smell of the coffee. He took a sip from his own cup, doing his best not to wish the moment away. She was always kindest in the mornings, before her temper had a chance to wake up.   
The sliver of body heat between them buzzed against him. He wondered if it was normal to want someone so desperately.   
It was easy to forget just how small she was, but here, outlined by distant mountains, she seemed impossibly tiny. She was only a foot or so shorter than he was, but everything about her looked proportionately shrunk. Her thin fingers wrapped around the cup, holding it close to her chest. He looked away.

The men spoke to one another a few feet away, their tones adequately hushed. There's a certain quality of the almost-dawn that requires quiet, and as their murmurs lilted over the soft air, it felt almost nice. There was a bite of coolness to the weather, the summer just beginning to abandon its sweltering warmth. She pulled her shoulders in close, the cotton of her dress not thick enough for morning mountain air. Trying not to be too obvious, she leaned gently into his side, casually resting her head against his shoulder. He looked down, and then pulled away, opening the trunk of the car and began rifling through his things.   
She tried to shove down her disappointment and embarrassment. At least the others hadn't seen. Was she really supposed to play hard-to-get when they'd been married five years? She clenched her jaw, staring straight ahead. 

He slammed the trunk shut, walking back over to her, dropping a shirt over her arm. She looked up at him, startled, before putting her coffee down long enough to pull it on. She tied it so that it pinched at her waist, the soft fabric pooling over her shoulders not-unattractively. Yes, she was her best when she was disheveled. She leaned back against the car, picking up her coffee and re-crossing her arms. He met her eyes and she smiled softly.   
“Thanks.”   
He just nodded, looking away, reclining his arm behind her again. She leaned into his side.


	52. Chalter 52

The mountain air was so crisp, so impossibly clean. The wind pulled at her skirt as they trekked up the rocky side of the mountain, the path too narrow for a car. Additionally, it just made sense to continue on foot at this point if they didn't want to be seen. The men carried suspiciously large bags. It made her uneasy. She still didn't know what he had planned, but she knew that she didn't like it. She pulled the shirt tighter across her frame. 

He caught her arm as she stumbled, successfully keeping her from falling. She mumbled a quiet thank you, moving to pull back, but he held fast, deciding it was far better for both of them if he continued to help her. She seemed to resent it, but she didn't actually complain.   
Eventually they reached a flatter piece of land that sloped down at a treacherous angle.   
After a few more more moments of walking in silence, she touched his arm, trying to get his attention, “So, can you tell me now?”   
“Tell you want?”  
“The plan--what are we doing here?”  
“You already know.”  
“I don't know everything.”  
“Do you really need to know everything?”   
“Yes.”  
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, “It’s just a clean-up mission. We're making a problem disappear.”  
“Okay, but how?”   
He gestured towards the large black bags the men were carrying, “It's simple. If you want to take care of an infestation, you need to get rid of the nest.”  
“And where is this nest?”   
“Beneath our feet.”   
She looked down, glancing over the rocky earth, “Beneath?”   
“True to form, these vermin like to burrow. Here, look,” he pointed down the sloped earth to a small landing towards the bottom. She had to squint to see it, but near the ground was a small glass circle, almost unseeable if not for the slight glint it gave from the sunlight. A window.  
She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, “How did you know it was here, then?”  
He scoffed, pompous, “They aren't nearly as clever as they like to think. All it took was one careless error on their part, and we had it.”  
They continued to walk until they came to a flat spot of earth a few hundred feet away. He spoke to his men quietly, and then they headed off in another direction, carrying two of the bags with them.

Setting the last bag on the ground, he opened it and began to pull some suspiciously complex looking metal parts from it.   
She gazed up the rocky front, “Are all of them here?”  
“All of what?”  
“All of the people.”  
“Don't be ridiculous, there's no way they'd all fit. However, a disbanded enemy is much easier to squash.”  
She sat on the grass, watching him. He was so careful, so exact.   
“You never told me what exactly the plan is.”  
“I know.”  
“Well, what are we leaving with? You've certainly packed as if you plan on staying a few days at least.”  
“We’ll have some traveling to do after, some bank accounts to clean out before anyone starts looking too hard.”   
“So… you're going to, what, rob them?”  
“Don't be ridiculous,” he looked up at her, a cold smile on his face. “This is a mission of revenge, Darling. That's entirely too simple.”  
“Revenge for what?”  
He didn't answer, although he clearly heard her.   
“Is this supposed to be some sort of bizarre Robin Hood thing? You're going to, what, take over the building and then take all that they have?”  
He scoffed, “What use would I have for it? No, no warnings, no last chances, no ‘say your prayers.’”   
“Pardon?”   
He gestured towards the black bags again, “A few well-placed gadgets can go a long way, surely you know that.”  
“I don't follow.”  
“Perhaps that's for the best,” he pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket, frowning down at it, surveying the ground. He strode about fifty feet away and then stopped, rechecking the paper, which she could now see was a map.   
“What are you looking for?”  
“The right spot.”  
“Which is?”   
“The air vents.”  
She frowned, “You're going to get in via air vent?”  
“I don't need to get in--I told you, this is strictly clean-up.”   
“You’re going to, what, try to burn down the building using the air vents?” The disbelief was palpable in her voice.   
“No, we're going to collapse it. Those idiots never bothered to stop and think that maybe building underground wasn't the best of ideas. It leaves plenty for them to be crushed with.”  
“You can't mean that you're going to kill them,” she stared at him in abject horror.   
He paused, scrutinizing her, “Did you think we came here to have a nice chat?”  
“And what about the kids? You said there were kids.”  
“What about the kids?” His tone was distracted.  
“How do they get out?”  
“With a great deal of luck.”  
She felt feverish, like her bones might fold beneath her, “No, you can't do that, I thought we agreed-”  
“We agreed to nothing. Kids grow into adults, do the math.”   
“No,” she shook her head vehemently, “there has to be something, anything-”  
“There is, and this is it. If we get rid of their training facilities, we get rid of their resources. You don't have to like it, but you must admit that I'm not wrong.” He fit the pieces together, working until he had something that looked suitably maniacal.   
“Wouldn't they be worth more to you as hostages?”  
“I love the way you think, Darling, but in this case, no.”  
“Why not? You can't be seriously contemplating murder on this scale! Especially not at the cost of all of that money, right? Isn't that more important?” She frantically tried to appeal to his greed if not his humanity.   
He paused, looking at her, “It's not just about winning. It's about sending a message. It's about saying, look, my stick is bigger than yours and I really don't like you getting in my way.”   
“So that's it?” she stared at him in angry horror, “That's how it ends?”   
“I wouldn't necessarily call it an end, Dearest,” he didn't ever bother looking up from his work this time, “it's more of an ‘opportunity for a different beginning.’ Glass half full, and all that.”  
“But there are people in there!”  
“Yes, unsurprising, but I'm glad you're catching on.”  
“You can't!” She grabbed at his arm, pulling it back.   
He tugged away, irritated, “I hardly think you're the person to tell me what I can and can't do. If it bothers you so much, close your eyes.”   
“Please, no! There has to be something else!”  
“Was there something else when you tried to kill me?”   
“You're the one who keeps making murder the only option! Please-” he clapped his hand over her mouth, staring at her with all of the tenderness of a teetering icicle. 

“Please, what?” He tightened his grip on her cheeks. Her hands fled to his wrist, unsuccessfully trying to pull him off. He straightened up, forcing her to her toes, “Please give up the only thing I am capable of caring about? Please forget my life's work just because you're afraid of hitting back for an injury that has nothing to do with you? Unless you have a new way of utterly annihilating the people I want nothing more than to see dead, keep it to yourself. And please,” he dropped the word with sarcastic emphasis, “do us both a favor and learn to think before you speak.”   
He dropped her roughly with a shove, going back to his work. 

She caught herself before she fell, shaking, terrified. She had to do something, she NEEDED to do something. No wonder he hadn't told her anything; he was right not to trust her with this.  
She grit her jaw, renewed in her resolve. Just because she herself was beyond redemption didn't mean she couldn't still do some good.   
She stared at him just a moment longer, backing away slowly before turning and beginning to run. 

He dropped the device with a huff, straightening up angrily, “Goddamn it, Violet.”


	53. Chapter 53

She scrambled down the crevice towards the small window they had passed. He followed her at a distance, unable to keep up, cursing as he ran.  
“You're going to get yourself killed--is that what you want?” She didn't reply, absorbed in her new mission of finding a very large rock. “Because if that's what you're looking for, I sure as hell can arrange something!”   
“Yes, keep threatening me, very clever!” She haphazardly threw a rock towards him before continuing her search.  
“You're a real idiot, do you know that?” 

Finally, she found a rock large enough, and hefting it up, threw it at the window. The glass cracked but didn't shatter. He reached the top of the crevice, trying to climb down without falling, but he was less steady than her, less sure.   
“Damn it, Violet, stop! If they see you, they'll kill you, I promise! Breaking into secured bases is generally frowned upon!”   
Heaving the rock over her shoulder, she threw it down with all her weight, another splintering crack running through the air.  
“Just stop, damn it! Stop it! The others won't know you're in there, everything's already in motion, it's too late!”   
Lifting it again, she brought it down hard, not caring as the jagged edges bit into her hands. Finally, the glass splintered and then shattered. She knocked loose the pieces at the edges, and quickly dropped in, falling a few feet to the floor.   
Her thin shoes did little to absorb the shock of the impact, and a sharp pain shot through her legs. Her left ankle rolled uncomfortably, folding beneath her. Grimacing, she straightened up. The floor opened into two seemingly identical hallways, forking away from her. She glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see him rush to the window, his hands gripping the circular pane with white knuckles.  
“Okay, good, you've made your point. Now come back!”   
“Not yet.” She turned to leave, but pausing for a moment, picked up one of the longer shards of glass. She could hear the exasperation in his voice as he cursed, his shoulders too wide to slip in after her.   
“I swear to God, Violet, you are not ruining this! I don't fucking care if you become collateral damage, do you understand that?”  
“Good, then you can finally leave me alone.”   
Holding the shard in her right hand, she took off down the hallway to the right, towards the heart of the building. 

The building was quiet. She has expected more bustle, more action, but she didn't meet a single person. Her footsteps echoed uncomfortably, her ankle throbbing painfully as she ran through the halls. There had to be someone.   
The lights overhead beamed like landing strips, dividing the ceiling in halves, beckoning her forward. She continued to walk nervously, flanked by walls of doors on either side until she reached what appeared to be the main room of the building. The walls surged out, forming a circle that surrounded her. She traced the room with her eyes, trying to find something, anything.   
It was empty; not a book, not a jacket, not a person. The lights were on, a large chandelier drawn down from the center of the ceiling, looking like a monument to crystal teardrops.   
She couldn't have much time left; if she wanted to do anything, she had to do it now.  
“Hello?” She called out, her voice frantic and afraid. There was no reply, no response, no sound at all. She felt her heart speed up, trying to burst out of her chest. “Hello,” she called louder, again only getting her echo in reply. “Think,” she chided herself, scrunching her eyes shut and tangling her hair back in her fingers, “Think! What do we know, what information do we have?” She strained her memory, trying to find something, anything, that would be helpful.   
There were three other doors besides the one she had come through leading out of the room, two of which opened into staircases leading down. She looked around, desperate for a clue. They had to be somewhere, and she knew there was nothing behind her, so she had a one in three chance. If the twin hallway to the left had been anything like the one she'd taken, there'd be no one there. Choosing quickly, she headed for the door straight across from her, tearing across the floor, her heartbeat in her ears. 

The hallway slowly sloped down, with intervals of landings containing a single door. She heard nothing besides her own frantic breathing and the sound of her footsteps pounding down the stairs.   
It seemed to go on for an eternity before it finally opened into a large triangular room. She gazed up at the tall ceiling, the words “The world is quiet here,” emblazoned upon a large beam that hung over the entry. There were shelves, hundreds of shelves, all standing empty, looking over her. A library. An empty library. She felt a sudden jolt of hope--they were supposed to hide everything in their libraries, yes? Maybe there was a secret door. She felt along the wooden panels of the wall, knocking desperately, hoping for something helpful to appear.   
“Hello?” She called out again, loudly, banging on the wall. 

“What are you doing, come on!” She jumped as figure grabbed her arm, pulling her along. A girl, young and with a mess of tangled curls piled on her head, tugged her roughly. The girl frowned back at her over her shoulder, “You're a mess, what were you doing?”   
“I was looking- I needed to find-”  
“Everyone's already gone, we’re the last.” She pulled her roughly, stopping in front of a large bookshelf that she swung open unnervingly easily, revealing a doorway behind it, “In any case, you'd better get back and clean up before inspection.”   
“No, listen,” Violet gripped her tightly by the shoulders, “this building is about to collapse-”  
“Well, duh.” The girl shoved her off, pushing her into the open doorway.  
“No, I'm being serious, there's no time!”   
“Exactly, so you'd better hurry.”  
“Please, I'm being serious!”  
The girl stared at her curiously, “Did you hit your head on something?” She reached up and began twisting Violet’s face to the side to get a better look.   
Violet shoved her off, “There's no time for this! Look, I have to talk to someone, we have to go!”   
The girl rolled her eyes, “Yeah sure, after you.” She gripped her arm tightly, guiding her down the long dark passage, “But first let's just stop off at the infirmary.”  
“I'm not sick! We're all in danger! The building-”  
“And everything around it is going to collapse in flames, so I've heard. Geez, you really are an ace reporter, aren't you? Listen, what class are you in?”  
“Class? I-” her words were cut off as the hall ended at a door affixed with a keyboard. The girl quickly typed something in, and the door clicked open. She pulled Violet through the passage. 

There were a few others, all walking about casually, as if they weren't in imminent danger. All of them were wearing the same sweater as the mysterious girl, but in different colors. The room seemed similar to the large circular room upstairs. She was momentarily distracted by the oddness of it all.   
The girl began to pull her along again, “Come on, infirmary’s this way.”  
“I don't- why won't you listen?” She felt her face flush as she raised her voice. A few nearby conversations quieted at her outburst. She hadn't time to be embarrassed, though; she was going to save their damn lives if it was the last thing she did. “The whole building is going to collapse! Entirely! It's going to go flat! With everyone inside!” A few nearby specters laughed quietly to themselves. Anger pooled behind her eyes, creating the familiar pinprick of frustrated tears.  
A boy in a blue sweater came up to them, nudging the curly-haired girl lightly, “Do you need some help?”   
“No, we were just on our way now, weren't we?”   
“Please, just shut up! And let go of me!” She pulled her arm away roughly. 

“Violet?” She pivoted, recognizing the voice. A figure with dark unkempt hair stepped towards her cautiously, his eyes wide behind his spectacles.  
It took a moment to convince herself that she wasn't seeing a ghost or some product of a fevered imagination. But there he stood, regarding her with the same astonishment that she felt before running towards her, hugging her tightly. She cried out in amazement, her joy overwhelming her as he lifted her in their embrace. She set her feet back on the floor, cupping his face in her hands, overwhelmed.  
“Klaus?”   
He smiled and she hugged him again, her heart overflowing her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap.   
> We made it.  
> I literally cannot stress enough how weird it is to be wrapping up this book. This book wasn't supposed to exist. This entire story was supposed to be five chapters that I wrote on my phone and then forgot about until I pulled it up to laugh at years later. I have no idea how the hell we got here (lol!) but I'm not entirely sorry that we did.  
> Thank you so much, lovely readers and dear Heathens for sticking it out for 53 more chapters.   
> I'm going to be taking a short break from writing this story to get my life somewhat in order, but until then, I'm hoping you'll like the minific which I've prepared to fill the time- Kindling. It's a bit different, but I'm honestly p excited about it.  
> As always, your messages, comments, and drawings mean the world to me. Keep talking to me/yelling at me/telling me what you liked and what you hated; I love every bit of it   
> And, as always, dear Heathens,  
> Thank you and 
> 
> Cheers


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